The Reptilians Are Amongst Us!
My eyes are closed. I sit cross-legged atop a comfortable pillow. I’ve sat in this position for forty-five minutes now. Isn’t this what those yogis call the lotus position? Not sure. Somehow it’s the least of my concerns right now. My forehead rests agreeably in the palm of my right hand. Behind my closed eyelids I watch a molten tapestry of shimmering liquid jewels dance, swirl, spiral, and fractal in and out of dimensions I didn’t think were possible—maybe they’re not. Again, the thought isn’t all that important. It amuses me that when I try to focus on any one of these countless jewels they shy away, melting into that reality that weaves and flows behind my eyes. When I let my eyes relax I see columns of eyes surrounded in rainbow flames that slowly blink at me in a calm and satisfying rhythmic motion, like waves upon a beach. I should be scared because for the last ten minutes a voice in the back of my head has been saying to me, “Humans shouldn’t be allowed to see this.” But I put it out of my mind and try to relax as best I can. Just when I think I’ve got the head-space under control, I hear an entirely different voice in my head say, “Don’t open your eyes he’s looking right at you.” I, of course, open my eyes and am shocked to see an embodiment of pure evil: a denizen of the blackest abyss, a lizard wearing a human skin-suit. It’s then I experience true, unadulterated terror for the first time in my life.
Earlier that same day, my good friend Ryan and I had driven to the small town of Como, about two hours west of Denver. We were both invited to a mutual friend’s cabin for the weekend. As soon as I stepped out of the car and saw the “town” I knew that the whole trip would be radically different than I had initially thought.
My first clue that this trip would be completely different than anything I’d experienced before was the fact that out of the six people gathered around the front of the cabin, five I had never met before. I have a personal creed which states that I will not partake in the use of drugs, especially psychedelics, around people who I’m not familiar with. As my right hand reached out to shake the hand of the man dressed all in black, I was met by the all too familiar butterflies-in-the-stomach feeling. But I couldn’t place it and let it slip my mind. This feeling was clue number two. I wish I would have heeded its warning.
Clue number three was the cabin itself. It stood—barely—at the end of a dirt road that snakes from U.S. Route 285 to the east, all the way west to the mountains. The cabin looked as if a horde of hippies had rescued it from future firewood. Every inch was covered in different colors of paint and smelled of stale, decades-old patchouli—and this was the outside. Inside, the walls were covered in collages of pictures ripped carelessly from magazines, a project taken up by one of the cabin’s inhabitants to stave off the deafening silence of boredom. Nothing in the entire place felt new. Everything gave off a musty vibe, both of smell and of sight. It was as if someone from the 1960’s had insulated the inside from the flow of time. I stood in a livable time-capsule in which I had not the faintest idea of the history.
The land which comprised Como was a literal junkyard, filled with turned-down refrigerators, old farming equipment, and tires, lots of tires situated upon blue, plastic tarps. On the very western edge of town stood the deserted town hall, completely boarded up and reeking of past spirits. When everyone shut their mouth, you could hear the whisper of long-ago gold-rushers still in the depths of their lamentations: a mix of incredible hardship, bad luck and still-born babies. I was disturbed and intrigued at the same time.
Off in the distance rose a mountain range quickly turning black and opaque with violent weather. This was clue number four because within minutes of seeing the approaching storm the first snowflakes fell. A snowstorm…in June? Unbelievable! All six of us raced indoors as the wind swirled the trees in the distance. We were all about to be stuck together in a tiny cabin, all blitzed out of our minds and not one of the clues Providence had given me had taken root in my awareness.
It should have been beer or maybe a toke or two on the multitude of pipes going around. I should have chosen one of those and relaxed into the night, laughing at the people messed up on less acceptable stuff. But no, I didn’t take that route. I took a fist-full of mushrooms out of the baggie and chomped them down with the help of swigs of Gatorade. Later all six of us took up residence in the living room now full of cushions and waited for the come up.
“What should we play?” asked Ryan, motioning to his sleeves of CDs he’d brought along. “Play some of that trippy shit we listened to on the drive up,” I responded. Ryan pulled out a disc labeled “Lifeforms” by the psychedelic electronic group, The Future Sound of London. I immediately became nervous because the music is some of the most mind-melting stuff when listened to sober and I knew it was about to cause problems with the others who were not expecting it. “This’ll do,” Ryan quipped as he loaded the CD.
Ryan and I share the same idea of tripping, which is one of absolute respect for the power the mushrooms possess and that the trip itself should be in complete darkness with our favorite music. That way the music is used as an aid to create thoughts and images in the labyrinth of the mind. This was not understood by the other participants they immediately grew uncomfortable as the effects took hold. This created a rift in the room which was felt all around, like a grimy fog of consciousness. Five of them went into the other room and eventually went outside and frolicked in the snow, lighting of firecrackers, directly opposite of what Ryan and I were doing back in the cushion room.
I am now sitting atop the cushion with my forehead in my palm, tripping away nicely to myself when I hear that voice in my head which warns me not to look up and I do and there is lizard-man, mimicking my posture while a grin the size of Montana spreads across his face. No words can truly express the abject horror that shivered menacingly up my spine and out the top of my head at the exact moment. The only idea of evil in my head prior to opening my eyes was the abstract Biblical idea of evil: the Devil, fire and brimstone, infinite torture etc. In that moment the abstraction became reality and I’ve still never experienced anything like it since.
Okay, if he opens his mouth and sticks out his tongue and it’s forked, I will lose it, I say to myself. I swear to all that is good and positive in this world that what then happened next is the truth, as far as my subjective experience can account for. As soon as I mutter those words in my head, the lizard-man smiles again and sticks out his tongue…it’s forked. I freeze. I’m solid throughout my entire body. My eyelids are stuck in the up-position and even though I’m conscious of my right foot fast falling asleep, I can’t do anything about it.
Somehow Ryan gets up and comes over and places a hand on my shoulder, “Hey man, let’s take a quick break outside, reset a bit, yeah?” I don’t respond. He grips my shoulder and subsequently my mind thaws and I snap back to some sliver of normal operating reality. I stand up and can’t feel my body but somehow it operates on its own and I walk towards the door, all the while I feel the burning sensation of the lizard’s eyes upon the back of my neck as it follows me to the door.
Outside it’s a deep, cold, purple. An indigo tinge blankets everything, the snow itself a violaceous hue that bleeds into unseen dimensions. This is when I become convinced that I’ve entered some sort of hell. Hell is not fire and brimstone and sulfur and the relentless and eternal screams of sinners but more akin to the way Dante describes the lowest level in his Inferno. It’s cold and frozen and completely devoid of any sound, save for the heart, which spasms violently with fear, trying to pound its way out of its ribcage. It couldn’t possibly get worse right?
Wrong. I face the mountains, trying to remember their beauty I witnessed only a scant few hours ago, trying to find some sort of beauty in this bruise-colored hell, when the door to the cabin creaks open and out slithers lizard-man, same stupid grin plastered on the same stupid face, same evilness emanating from his black-clothed scales. I turn back around and pray—I might’ve even clasped my hands together: “To any and all things that are holy in this world, please do not let me go like this. God? Jesus? Yahweh? Vishnu? Anybody? Can you hear me? Please, if you really do exist and have any power to perform miracles, please, I’d really appreciate it you could scrounge one up for me right now, just this once. I swear I’ll never ask for another favor as long as I live. Please.”
I even remember I apologized to Ryan as I looked him in the eyes, how sorry I was that I wouldn’t be able to make the trip back home with him. “What the fuck are you talking about, dude? Are you okay?” I couldn’t form a coherent response, so we walked back inside the cabin and I sat down at the small Formica table in the kitchen. All I wanted to do was stare at the angelic candle flame, flickering playfully inside its jar, for the rest of the night. I saw the lizard snake his way back inside, across the kitchen, and into the living room, completely at ease with his licentiousness. It was the last I saw of him, but his image is forever burned into my memory. Not even the destruction caused by Alzheimer’s will have the power to rip this from my mind’s eye.
I awoke the next morning to the heavenly sizzle of bacon on an outside grill and coffee brewing inside on the wood-fired stove. Accompanying them were a body-hangover from hell (ha-ha), that made me feel as if I weighed down the Earth, keeping it in orbit somehow, and a sinister pounding headache. Everyone gave me the look of sympathy with a healthy dose of hilarity. The man who had morphed into Mr. Reptilian came up to me, completely devoid of any scales or forked tongue, and goaded me with the retelling of the previous night’s events.
I can easily say from that moment on my life has been nothing but uphill. Absolutely nothing ever fazes me now. Bad things? Nothing will ever compare to the absolute realization and conviction that one will soon find themselves in Hell. Nothing. Well, unless there’s an actual Hell, of course. But then, I’ll be prepared for that.