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The Man With the Golden Teacup

13:00. Zero euphoria yet. No detachment from physical body only mild visual mutilation. Maybe about two hours away at a guess, he thinks. Someone who doesn’t feel like him switches on the teevee and at first receives only white static, he twists the dial until he finds Lynyrd Skynyrd doing Free Bird. He leaves the channel right there.

After smoking a couple of joints and drinking a can of ice-cold Coca-Cola to wash away the taste of the cactus, someone who doesn’t feel like him runs to the bathroom and purges. Only two heaves, all over in less than sixty seconds. He takes some ginger root tablets and vitamin B6 to settle his stomach and five minutes later he’s feeling intoxicated. Floating on the ceiling almost.

14:52. There comes a definite vibration in everything and colours fading all fast and thin. An unmistakable melting of the walls. Everything beginning to deliquesce. Looking out the window, it’s another world out there, the trees appear to be breathing and they’re sprouting new blooms and it makes him tearful about how petroleum is destroying mother nature. There’s a spiritual war coming. Coming…Coming…Coming, to the marching of the drums. A bloody reckoning is on its way. And we’re going to have to atone for our sins.

Someone who doesn’t feel like him realises the suffering in the world right now. Whole starving civilisations. People screaming with broken limbs and amputations. The quiet
systematic and deliberate destruction of human souls and human minds. And someone who doesn’t feel like him hears a voice in his head say: violent gods create violent peoples and violent peoples worship violent gods, the death-toll testifies century after century. He smokes another joint on the couch, lying there like a block of polystyrene and cajoles himself into believing this is not ennui but profound understanding of the human machine.

16.00. He saw a murder of black angels coming out of the sun in a swarm with their ten-foot wingspans like giant birds of prey circling above in the firmament. Termites shifting en masse, marching their way across the face of earth devouring foundations of buildings. Empires come falling. Galloping miniature horses in place of wheels on speeding cars. And golden phoenixes bubbling up out of the sizzling embers of earth, some of the phoenixes growing twenty feet tall, rising up to meet the black angels across the arch of sky and the heavens bursting into flame to the beating of battle drums and screeching of strings in a discordant theatre of conflict. Armageddon has begun. Someone who didn’t feel like him could only stand with eyes dilated, skin white as a bride, watching as the angels of death fell, broken winged, descending in flames one by one out of the sky, screaming in their death throes crashing towards the ground. And in finality only the phoenixes remained, wings unfurled victorious, emblazoned against the horizon.

04.00. Kazer Mooncoin first removed the spines of the San Pedro Monstrose plant and left the twelve inch length of green cactus shell sliced into quarters cooking in water, low heat for six hours, followed by the requisite two hours with added lemons and limes to help mask the bitter metallic taste, simmering it down into molasses-like consumable dose. He then strains the solids out of the infused water through a mesh strainer into the blender for its final refinement and then pours the cactus juice into the golden teacup.

The teacup itself is an artefact Kazer Mooncoin considers to be an exquisite piece of history, made from melted down gold teeth wrenched from the mouths of Nazi concentration camp victims. Mooncoin claims the Fuhrer himself is said to have drunk from the golden teacup.

21.00. A light in one of the apartments comes on, a silhouette moves behind the shades and then the light goes off again. The layer of cold sweat that seems to have been glistening on him all day is evaporating. Visions diminishing, Someone who doesn’t feel like Kazer Mooncoin sits out on the balcony in just his underwear and pair of snakeskin cowboy boots, smoking a Craven ‘A’. It’s very early August in Birmingham city. He’s just a couple of points off baseline now, a complete sense of serenity upon him like he’s quietly sinking into himself. It’s getting dark, except for streetlights stretching to the distance. The moon hangs low on the horizon, making its way up between the residential tower blocks of Chelmsley Wood. He douses his cigarette in the ashtray and eats a slice of Marinara pizza.