The Trials of Peyote, Part 3 of 3: The Passion of The Wagga

The Wagga, the Indian shaman known as He Who Passes Much Wind, and your humble Novantor were sitting around a fire, inside a teepee… in the middle of the desert.

“How long does this stuff take to work?”

“Patience, Wagga. The peyote is not intrinsically good or evil, nor does it follow any set timeframe. It will tell you when you are ready,” the shaman explained.

“I like alcohol better,” I muttered. “I know exactly what to expect and it never talks back.”

Your Novanator knew He Who Passes Much Wind was full of shit. I read up a little on the Divine Cactus before we left. Peyote usually takes about a half hour after consumption to start working. There wasn’t some mystical mumbo-jumbo behind it—it just got you really fucked up.

Now, six to 10 buttons from the plant usually produces the desired effect, but for some fucked up reason The Wagga and I decided to take double that amount… just because we dared each other to.

It was not the wisest idea.

25 minutes after we took the drug, The Wagga began to hold his stomach.

“I feel sick, Nova-mon… like I just gravity bonged an eighth of skunk weed!”

My crazy Jamaican friend keeled over and started making strange gurgling sounds. I reached over and pulled him back up off the ground.

“Get a hold of yourself!”

“I gotta puke, mon!”

The Wagga raced towards the open flap on the teepee and stuck his head outside. He regurgitated a mess of jalapeno poppers and nachos that had been sitting in his stomach since morning. The smell was thankfully released into the desert air, killing only a small prairie dog that was nearby.

“It is good that he vomits,” He Who Passes Much Wind said to me. “It is a cathartic purging of demons. His body and mind will be pure for the journey.”

“The journey into what?” I asked.

The shaman smiled.

“Into the Novaverse.”

It was right then that the peyote kicked in. I started feeling light-headed and then my mind began floating away from my body. It was like a mescaline dream as I drifted up into space and through the atmosphere. I saw the Earth tumble away. The stars swirled by me as your humble Novanator flew past Mars and into the asteroid belt.

I slowed down and was able to swim the celestial seas towards a large rock the size of bus. It was on this mass of primordial elements that I saw The Wagga trying to smoke a chunk of white rocks he had picked off of the surface.

As he finished inhaling he turned around. He laughed as I landed next to him.

“Nova-mon, this shit is making me see stars!”

“Wagga, we are in the middle of space. Stars are everywhere.”

“No way, mon. How the fuck did we get here?” he asked.

“It must’ve been the peyote!”

It was then that the space around us started to fold. The black backdrop with pinhole stars turned into a bright blue sky. The asteroid expanded underneath our feet, transforming into the Earth…

But this was no Earth we had ever seen before. The land stretched out for miles. The air was clear and there was no smell of industry or gas fumes. It was a paradise, green with life and buzzing with energy.

A small stone dwelling was near a garden by the side of the road. 12 black men dressed in strange robes stood outside the building, beckoning us to come over.

“What the fuck is this all about, Wagga?”

“We seem to have traveled back in time, before the white man took over and done wrecked the world!”

We made our way down the road towards the group of men. I knew The Wagga and I were both just really fucked up on peyote and none of what was happening was real… but fuck if it didn’t feel like we had been transported back to some ancient land. I wondered how it all came to be, and why The Wagga and I were experiencing the exact same thing.

The men welcomed us as brothers and directed us into the dwelling. Before us a long table was set up with many chairs. Food and drink were in abundance.

“Brother Wagga, this feast is in your honor!” one of the men proclaimed.

“How do you know my name?” The Wagga asked.

“Have you lost your mind? You are The Wagga, the One Who Can Smoke More Than Others. We are your disciples. We follow your doctrines and spread the word to the people,” the man explained.

“Word,” another disciple confirmed.

“What the black?!” The Wagga exclaimed.

The head disciple took a good look at your Novanator.

“Who is this, Wagga?”

“This is my good friend, mon. His name is Mr. Nova.”

There was a dead silence as the disciples stared at me with wide-eyed wonder.

“We have heard of The Master of the Technique, but we never dreamed we would meet him in person. My name is Johnson, and I am pleased to meet you.”

“You have heard of me? Have you read my column Nova Style?”

The men laughed.

“Of course we have! The Novaverse is expansive. We are able to enter it after we partake in the Sticky Icky and have been able to procure some of your columns. But for some reason many of them have been hidden from us,” Johnson said.

“Yes, Mr. Nova, an evil force seeks to have your words destroyed,” another disciple told me.

“My words? Destroyed?”

I wondered why my columns had warranted the attention of evil? What was I to do? Who was behind it all? I soon realized, however, that I would have to find out another time, for the feast was about to begin.

It was a spread the likes of which your Novanator hadn’t seen since he gained V.I.P. status at that casino in Vegas. There were assorted meats, dates, wines and a wooden keg of…

“Beer! Sweet beer I have found you!”

I ran to the keg and started drinking directly from the tap.

“Yes, we learned how to brew beer from your columns,” Johnson explained.

“We also gleaned how to speak English as well!” another cavorted.

I gulped down the lager. I then ran to the table to devour some food.

“This is great!” I said biting down on a chunk of lamb. I paused and looked around. “Where are the nachos, though?”

Johnson grew grim.

“We have not found a way to correctly reproduce your beloved nachos. We have tried time and time again, but we only end up puking and getting gas,” he said.

“No, my new friend, that sounds like you’re actually getting it right!”

The Wagga was getting antsy. He pulled me aside.

“This is my feast, Nova-mon. Stop horning in on my disciples!” he said.

“I’m sorry, it is just nice to have some fans.”

“But they worship me!”

“You’re so right, exalted one!” I laughed.

The Wagga got all quiet and pissed off.

“Ok, I’ll play along,” I said.

“Thanks, mon.”

We went back to the feast and sat down to eat.

It was a raucous time. Food and drink were devoured. The disciples praised The Wagga for his many exploits and passed around a four-foot tall bong in honor.

At one point one of the disciples had to leave.

“Where are you going, Judacris?” Johnson asked.

“I… I forgot something at the crib. I’ll be right back!” Judacris said as he hastened his pace and exited out the door.

“Strange,” Johnson remarked, “Judacris never missed an orgy before.”

“Orgy?!” The Wagga and I exclaimed in unison.

I was worried that we had stumbled unto some perverted sex cult, and that we would be made sacrifices to their sick Devil God! But my fears were put to rest when the Johnson shouted out loud a sentence that makes the hearts of grown men dance:

“Bring on the bitches!”

At that moment 100 women entered the room. They were beautiful, Nubian creatures with long, black, flowing hair and supple bodies ready for sex. There was only one problem…

As I pulled down one of the girl’s dresses I discovered immediately that her bush was overgrown.

“What the fuck!” I exclaimed. “Where is your vagina, woman?”

The young lady shrugged here shoulders.

I looked over and saw Johnson banging a Friend With Benefits from behind as she lapped the juices from another girl’s hairy beaver. I got his attention and pointed towards the mound full of pubic hair in front of me.

“Johnson, why can’t I see her precious taco?” I asked in disbelief.

“We tried to convince them that sweet shaven snatch was better, Nova, but they wouldn’t listen. Looks like it is going to take 2,000 years for these bitches to come around,” he answered while pounding away on the girl.

I was horrified. I never—and I mean NEVER—bang a chick out (except for when I have to face the challenge of the Grim Reaper) unless she is smooth and clean. But if it meant I was going to help speed up the pace of shaving evolution, I decided I would do the best I could to tag as many ladies as possible during the orgy.

I focused on their large melons rather than their unsightly nether regions and got the job done.

After about an hour, Judacris arrived. He stood in the doorway with no one paying any attention to him; after all—all of us were busy!

“There he is!” Judacris said, pointing towards The Wagga.

The Wagga was face deep in a mound of female pubic hair. He looked up with a surprised expression on his face.

Suddenly, Judacris and a group of Roman soldiers entered the room.

“Break it up! Break it up! Seize their savior at once!” one of the Romans said, pushing apart people engaged in sex acts.

“We just want The Wagga,” Judacris explained as he moved forward through the crowd. And I realized what had happened: Judacris had betrayed The Wagga, notifying the Roman authorities of his revolutionary gospel. And now, The Wagga must die on a cross for all mankind.

What Judacris and the soldiers didn’t count on was that The Wagga had to run from the authorities on many occasions before, and had it down to a science. Within three seconds he was up, sprinting butt-naked out of the building and into the woods. “Fuck you all, you Roman honky muthafuckers!” The Wagga shouted at the crowd. “Mel Gibson can kiss my black ass!”

“After him!”

I realized that we had to get out of this crazy place and back to our own time…

…and then the peyote kicked into high gear.

Everything went fuzzy after that. Events shifted, happening in random order and at a lightning fast rate. All your Novanator can remember from that explosion in time is seeing The Wagga walk through the streets carrying a 10-foot tall bong on his back with a crown on his head made from a chronic plant. He was pushed up a hill and forced to smoke from the gargantuan device. The crowds cursed at him from below, throwing rocks at him and…

Then I woke up.

I was back in the desert, lying on the ground next to a dead prairie dog.

“Aw, poor little guy…” I said.

I came to my senses and started digging a hole to give the animal a proper burial.

In the distance I heard The Wagga scream. He jumped up from the ground and started running towards me, still completely naked.

“Nova, help me, mon! These people are trying to smoke me to death!”

“Wagga, calm down, the peyote has worn off.”

He stopped running and looked down at himself.

“Why am I naked?” he asked.

“You must have taken your clothes off during the orgy.”

“Was it real?”

“I don’t know.” I looked around. “Where is He Who Passes Much Wind?”

The teepee was all that remained from our vision. Thankfully the Indian Shaman didn’t steal our wallets. Everything was left in a nice pile next to the entranceway.

“He must have left last night, probably to help someone else understand,” The Wagga said.

“Either that, or he thought we were crazy and high-tailed it out.”

“No matter, mon. I just hope I get the chance to thank him one day.”

The Wagga and I buried the prairie dog together and headed home…