The Demon Spice (aka When the Demon King Partied With Death)
I’ve done every single drug out there, pretty much. Opiates, coke, amphetamines/meth, DXM (Robotripping), magic mushrooms, acid, DMT, various forms of fake acid that I have no clue what the fuck they were, MDMA, and of course weed.
The one that I consider by far the scariest, most addictive, and most dangerous is synthetic cannabinoids. You know, the “legal weed” that head shops sell/used to sell? They got sold as incense, and went by some street name, most commonly “Spice”. Yeah, those things you thought were a harmless joke are the most fucked up thing I’ve *ever* been addicted to.
(Yes, addicted, as in full-on chemical dependency)
I used to smoke five grams of the shit in a day. If I stopped smoking for more than 30 minutes, I’d get incredibly sick and start throwing up. They also made me full on psychotic, gave me Death seizures, and just all around scared the fuck out of me. By “made me psychotic”, I mean a couple different things. I’d have paranoid hallucinations like thinking a lightbulb was going to explode and kill everyone in my house. (Spoiler alert: the lightbulb didn’t explode) They also made me pass out and think I was wandering different spiritual realms and talking to demons. Hence, “The Demon Spice”.
Oh yeah… I forgot to introduce Death!!! So, the way I got hooked on the Demon Spice was through a dude I met in rehab. I usually use a pseudonym when including a friend in my memoirs, and Death just happened to already go by the perfect one. Yes, that’s legit what his friends called him. I don’t know why honestly, he was actually kinda cute and cuddly to be totally honest. We’d always argue whether the Demon King should be afraid of Death. (Remember when I said I was the Demon King?) To this day, I claim that the Demon King is constantly reborn, so Death doesn’t matter to me. He doesn’t seem to understand why I’m inherently superior. Anyway, lemme tell you about the months I spent partying with Death.
Like I said, Death and I were in rehab together. We had the same sponsor, and both got kicked out around the same time. At first, we were hitting AA meetings together and being sober-bro good boys. That changed when I was like, “Hold up, I’m the motherfucking Demon King… I don’t stay sober!” and started chugging liquor for breakfast. Death liked the idea of saying “Fuck Sobriety!”, but he insisted that because he was on probation and couldn’t drink, we should smoke Spice instead. I was like, ”Lawl fakeweed what a joke.” He insisted it was more addictive than heroin. I called him a moron for thinking that without ever doing heroin. It turns out the even the Demon King can be wrong.
(I know! I was shocked too!!!)
We went to this head shop in West Cleveland called “Skinny Jack’s” and bought a bag of something going by the name of “Deathgrip”. It all had some sort of dark name like that. Apparently, I’m not the only one who thinks it makes you talk to demons. We get back to my place, back a bowl, he hits it, then passes it to me. As soon as I took my hit, he started counting down with his fingers “3… 2… 1…” then he shot me the finger guns. He had that shit down to a science. Being the Demon King, I managed to maintain my composure, but holy shit, that stuff hit me like a goddamn freight train. Death actually complimented me, and said I handled it better than anyone he’d ever seen.
(Being able to handle hard drugs is a matter of pride for the Demon King, after all)
Honestly, I could see why he said most people can’t really handle the stuff, but at that time, I was still underestimating this extremely fucked up drug. Right away, he tried to hold me back from goin’ too ham. I thought he just wanted more to himself, ‘cause he’d regularly go all-in ‘til he was having seizures and shit. Looking back, I think he honestly was trying to protect me.
Normally, I’d let Death take the bag home with him, but one night I got curious and told him he had to leave it with me since I was the one who paid for it that day. For some reason, I wanted to smoke till I started puking and seizing out like he did. It seemed fun. I straight power-chiefed as hard as I could until I suddenly started seeing stars and hearing voices in my head taunting me. Then I puked… a couple times. The demons talked to me for a bit. I forget what they said, but it was mostly shit we can all agree with like, “Fuck the world” and “Everyone you love will abandon you in the end.” You know, really agreeable, family-oriented, and wholesome messages that only a sociopath would argue with. After that, I passed out.
The next day, I reported the findings of my scientific experiment to Death, and was shocked when he told me he’d already made the demon discovery. I still don’t understand why he would keep the fact that he was speaking with my subjects a secret, but I assume it’s because he’s some kind of evil monster. Still, Death and I continued to party harder and harder. We’d sit in my Mom’s basement smoking this shit, watching youtube. Well, watching youtube is partially an exaggeration. When we were awake, we’d watch youtube. Half the time, we were zonked out wandering other realms with our demon pals. I remember one day I just sat there staring into space while he did whatever while this weird, pure evil dubstep track-looped in my mind. The demon told me things like “Just shitfuck everything” and “Anarchy reigns supreme!” You know, little kiddy, Walt Disney approved stuff.
(Seriously, fuggin’ great times!!!)
This went on for a few weeks. Occasionally I’d get just a tad psychotic (only a little bit) and start screaming at the top of my lungs harassing my family. Death would freak out when I’d start doing that, but honestly that never got a response from my family because they were kinda used to me being a drug-addled sociopath by this point. However, one time I got psychotic and thought the lamp next to my bed was going to explode. For some reason, the light from it was just triggering me and I wanted the light turned off. However, I was afraid of the light and didn’t wanna go near it to turn it off myself. When I kept screaming, “IT’S GONNA EXPLODE!!!” that sorta drew my mom and my brother’s attention. Everyone kept insisting it wasn’t gonna explode, but I assure you if I hadn’t intervened it would have. That lamp was pure goddamn evil and it wanted all us dead.
(Good thing I thwarted it’s terrorist plot, right?)
Now, the lamp did get turned off, however the police got called to figure out what my deal was. It turned out that I had a warrant in Lorain County, Ohio, due to a driving-under-suspension ticket that I never appeared in court for. The police where I lived near Cleveland at the time arrested me, then a state trooper took me out to Lorain County jail.
(I believe you normies refer to this process as “extradition”)
As soon as the cops got called, Death did the smart thing and bailed the fuck out. I got out the next day though. My kid brother came to get me from Lorain, and Death and the Demon King resumed partying. That “party” eventually turned into “hardcore chemical dependency”. The two of us would buy a 10 gram ($50) bag every day and smoke it all between the two of us. Every thirty minutes, we’d get a reminder to take a hit because we’d throw up *without* having to smoke anything. Death used to tear apart the tinfoil pipes we’d make to smoke out of, and smoke the foil for the residue on it to stave off withdrawal. That was actually very effective. Eventually got thrown out of his Dad’s house, ended up in a homeless shelter, and got clean.
The Demon King is down for the cause though, so I marched forward even if it meant marching forward alone. Mom was starting to get pissed about money disappearing. She accidentally wired me money without knowing it. A Playstation ended up missing. I honestly think foul play on the part of all the demons I was talking to might have been involved. It wasn’t me though, I swear. It woulda been a non-monarch demon, if it was a demon at all.
(I guess we’ll never know who the true culprit was…)
I was starting to lose control of my motor skills from the drugs. I wouldn’t be able to move smoothly. Muscles would seize randomly and feel like deadweight shaking my skeleton. I’d sweat bullets and puke whenever I stopped smoking for too long. I’d become comatose and puke when I smoked too much. I wasn’t gonna be the fiend who smoked tinfoil, so I bought a glass pipe. Even if I was above smoking foil, I wasn’t above pushing a piece of toilet paper through the pipe with a paperclip to soak up the residue and smoke that to stave off withdrawal. Eventually, I decided it was all too much.
I tried to wean off slowly, but I couldn’t do it, so I said “Fuck it” and went cold turkey. At first I was getting up and running to the toilet to puke, but it was happening so often that eventually I just started puking where my bed met with the corner of the room so my pile of vomit wouldn’t be visible. For two days I couldn’t sleep, so I got some seroquel from Mamadukes to knock me out. I’d wake up randomly, screaming for a reason I can’t remember. I slept in my mom’s basement, and one time someone dropped something on the floor above me. The loud noise made me jump out of bed and sprint out of the house, convinced the house was collapsing. My niece and nephew were over at the time. I’m sure I looked just amazing to them.
I got free of the Demon Spice though!!!
(Until two months later when Death and I started smoking again)
Yeah… I dunno how that happened really, but just replay basically the same story except this time Death had his own place and we did it there instead of my Mom’s basement ‘cause the first time I brought him by she was immediately all, “Nope… we’re not doin’ this again. Take it somewhere else, kids.” I remember one time I zonked out at Death’s place for a day. Another time I woke up to him explaining to me I’d had the worst seizure he’d ever seen me have. Skinny Jack’s got closed, and they had the best shit in town. Instead we had to go deep into the hood in east Cleveland, to a little shop that was very non-visible and guarded by big dudes in “Security” shirts that I’m fairly certain may have been part of some kind of street gang. We called this shop “Satan’s” because Death was convinced the dude who worked there was the devil. Death and I both agreed we missed Skinny’s stuff. Eventually, Death got kicked out of his new place and ended up back in a homeless shelter, and I ended up going through that horrible withdrawal a second time. I can’t stress enough that the withdrawal was way worse than heroin. It was on par with alcohol, which is by far the worst withdrawal I’ve ever endured.
I’ve done the Demon Spice one time since all that went down. I got drunk one day, and drove to Satan’s around midnight one night. Satan stayed open 24/7, which is convenient when you’re a Demon King who keeps odd hours. I took one hit, started hearing Papadukes and my deceased Great-aunt Bobby yelling at me from behind their graves, quickly apologized while I threw up for 10 minutes, and then flushed the contents of the bag down the toilet with the puke.
And that’s the story of the time the Demon King partied with Death!