Garden of Twisted Fruit

The sky was pulsing like a neon bruise, and the mushrooms were kicking in with the fury of a derailed freight train. Green oranges tasted red—no, not red, RED—a screaming, blood-warm explosion of fresh Placentia and number nine cosmic dissonance.

The air was thick with sin and sweat that stuck to the roof of your mouth like the memory of bad decisions. Alice came at me like a razor-sharp hallucination wrapped in lace—pussy French kisses and stockings stretched high, a fever dream in silk and shadow and smoke.

“Wet and wild and sour,” she whispered, her breath tasting like fermented peaches and promises I’d be too drunk to remember, save the lacerations to my softened genitalia.

Whiskey on gravel, rough and biting. No ice, no relief—just the sting of fire down my throat, the kind that makes men confess sins they haven’t committed yet. Bananas slipping in and out, away from reality like sanity on a bad trip.

Christ, had Alice called out for more? Or was I the rabbit now, tumbling down the hole with no exit? Was this my life now? Chasing down the throat of madness, or was madness chasing me down with a cocktail of psychedelics and despair?

Tall and short, the world twisting like a funhouse mirror. I laughed, but it came out wrong—too sharp, too desperate. The music was like a chainsaw cutting through the fog of my mind, each note being a nail driven into the coffin of sanity. The smell was a mix of burnt rubber and dreams gone sour.

The stockings ran high, vanishing into shadows that should’ve been solid. Somewhere in the chaos, I knew I was lost. But hell, wasn’t that the point? Even Nixon would’ve blushed at this scene, this wild, unhinged circus of American decadence.

I could feel the walls closing in, not just physically but metaphysically. Were they watching? Did they know? Every shadow now seemed like a spy, every sound a betrayal. In one moment, I was the king of this twisted realm, and in the next, a pawn in a game I didn’t understand and played by elements I couldn’t see.

Her eyes were like twin moons, pulling at the tides of my mind and dragging me into an orbit of lunacy. Oh, you think you know fear? Try this: being caught between the high of enlightenment and the low of oblivion, with no map or guide to ignore.

The whiskey wasn’t just drinking me; it was baptizing me into a new religion of pain and pleasure, where every gulp was a sermon on the mount of madness.