The Trials of Peyote, Part 1 of 3: The Quest Begins

“It’s called peyote, the Divine Cactus!” The Wagga proclaimed gleefully.

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about a beautiful thing, Nova-mon! A wonderful thing! Finally, after all of these years, I have discovered a drug that has yet to be exploited by my favorite hip hop groups!”

The Wagga and I were splitting a pitcher of beer and a plate of nachos at a local watering hole. I was beginning to wonder if all of the dope he had smoked in his life was starting to affect his brain. He was totally fried and spouting out facts about the desert plant like there was no tomorrow!

“Did you know peyote is indigenous to Texas and Mexico, Nova-mon? And did you know that the famous writer, Aldous Huxley, tried some of that shit? After he done finished hallucinating, he proclaimed ‘This is how one ought to see, how things really are.’ He even wrote a book called The Doors of Perception. I read part of it, but had to use the pages when I ran out of papers to roll my chronic."

I was incredulous. How the fuck did The Wagga (not the brightest kid in the world) know the meaning of the word “indigenous?” And more importantly, how did he become so interested in a cactus with powerful hallucinogenic properties? And how did he know how to read?

“You are one crazy Jamaican muthafucker. But why peyote when there is so much good chronic going around?”

The Wagga let out a grin.

“The sticky-icky has no doubt been good to me, but sometimes I grow tired of it. I want to seek new experiences. So I asked around at my shit-ass job if anyone knew of a drug you could take that didn’t have any comedown. One skinny Mexican told me to seek out peyote—it would enlighten me and get me really fucked up all at the same time. As for side effects, he said that when the trip was over you would feel relaxed and pure.”

“Sounds nice. But I don’t know about that ‘pure’ part; your Novanator won’t ever feel clean. My jang has been inside too many feminine orifices to ever be wholesome and pure again.” All those late nights with ditzy babes, 151, and leather whips had a price, my Novanites. “But you know, I could use something to help take some stress off of my mind.”

“You have been a little uptight these days.”

“I sense that the Grim Reaper is after me again. I feel like my time is running out.”

“Shut the fuck up, Nova-mon. You the craziest cracker I know. Anyway, the Mexican also spun a tale about banging some chic out doggystyle for 30-minutes. He told me you would know what he meant.”

Ah yes, I did know.

“Good thing I got you that job, Wagga. You can learn a lot from those undocumented fry cooks. They have knowledge most Americans will never learn, as my fellow citizens feel obligated to follow stupid laws, moral edicts, and common sense that I cannot abide. Next time you see my friend Peppi, tell him I said ¡Horrale!”

The Wagga ignored my request to send best wishes to Peppi; instead he kept going on about peyote, or as it is known botanically:LOPHOPHORA WILLIAMSII. Seems the shit has been used since 1000 B.C. and was banned by Roman Catholics when they came over to the New World and subjugated the Native Americans. Stupid fucks proclaimed that peyote is evil because they believed it was designed for the “purposes of detecting thefts, of divining other happenings and foretelling future events.” And according to the self-righteous pricks, eatingpeyote was likened to an act of cannibalism. Those fucking church people never cease to piss me off.

“So Nova-mon, will you try the sacred drug with me?” The Wagga finally asked after his ten minute lecture on how the drug must be dried before consumption, either by the sun or by being baked at 250 degrees over a few hours.

“Sure, Wagga. I’ll try it.”

I was up for anything that stuck it to the Christian Fear Doctrine, and if it meant I had to take an illegal drug and hallucinate for three days straight, so be it.

“What do with have to do?” I asked.

“We have to go to Texas. There we’ll find an Indian shaman who goes by the name He Who Passes Much Wind.”

“Texas?”

I grew quiet. The Wagga became concerned.

“What be wrong with Texas, Nova-mon? They allow black people into Texas, now, don’t they? Don’t tell me I am going have to crush some cracker into powder just to get high!” The Wagga screamed while freaking out.

“No Wagga, calm down, you silly fuck! You’ll be fine! We’ve come a long way as a country. In Texas, they’ve pretty much stopped killing brothers and dragging them behind trucks. Hell, at some bars, they’ll even let you dance with a white woman without lynching your black ass.”

He let out a sigh.

“Ok, Nova-mon, so what’s the problem?”

I didn’t want to tell him what happened in Texas that one time long ago, so I took a deep breath and made the decision to support my friend.

“Ok, let’s go to Texas.”

“Sweet, Nova-mon!” the Wagga exclaimed. “Oh, by the way, my license just got suspended. A cracker redneck cop done revoked my driving privileges just because I be black. And because I was doing figure-eights on the highway while drunk. Fucking racist cops! You have to drive, mon!”

Fucking Wagga, I thought to myself.

So it was time for a road trip. The Wagga and I packed our things and hopped in the Nova Wagon in search of peyote and a mysterious shaman—who little did we know, would open up a portal to the Novaverse…