Absinthe - A Cautionary Tale (1/2) By Sean Davey

(1/2), (2/2).

In pursuit of the perfect high, man invented absinthe, and I among others regularly enjoy its powerful effects. But on some days, store-bought brands are far too timid for the task at hand. On these days we need the homemade stuff. Created in garages and lofts, jam packed with wormwood and all those other alpha-terpenes to get the brain synapses into full gear. The existence of these brews is only whispered about, like moonshine, probably because this homemade hooch could knock the business end off a concrete rhino.

After two glasses the drinker feels fine. On doubling the dose, he will be gripped by a sense of total euphoria. By the sixth short, the drinker is less a human being and more a screaming banshee from hell. If he dares venture to nine glasses, lives will be at risk. The transformation is so fast and so savage that it defies all logic and belief. One man who can testify to the lethal effects of homemade absinthe is a young man by the name of Ed. Sadly, Ed is unable to tell his tale, the green fairy cut his life short and the story of the last few hours of his life now serves as a cautionary tale for wormwood enthusiasts across the land. Ed was a good man and a friend, he would trust me to provide the narrative of his final hours, and if his story is really a confession then perhaps mine is too.

Ed had made his absinthe at home and he had taken his time. Lovingly culturing his wormwood from seed, tilling the soil and watering daily. For Ed, where drinking was concerned, no effort was too great and for his devotion he was rewarded with a crop of fresh wormwood leaves. The recipe that Ed used warned only to use two ounces of wormwood. Fuck it he thought, we need more power, more substance. Around five times more as it turned out. And this is where got nasty. It was Sunday afternoon, nothing to do, and the green fairy called out to Ed. He took a glass and poured a generous measure of thick green liquid.

The drink was powerful but Ed was in the mood and he drank some more. He drank a lot more. The dull colours in the living room began to light up, the pale green of the bottle shone with a metallic glow, Ed was floating around the room, not drunk but high. He felt like one of the old French poets, Oscar Wilde, Toulouse Lautrec, another drink. Ed was a real mess. Like so many before, he had underestimated the sheer brutality that wormwood has on a man's mind. He needed to gain some control so he crawled into the kitchen. Drink some water, put the flames out and then sleep off this terrible drug, he thought to himself.

The absinthe was still boring deeper. It snapped Ed's mind and that's when he saw it, a huge beast in the garden. This was it, that animal will tear me limb from limb if it sees me, it can smell my fear. Ed had to escape. In his mind he was convinced his life was in danger. Reason was lost on him. He reached for the pistol he always kept on the table, a .44 magnum, long barrel and pearl handles. What a beautiful weapon he thought, as he took aim and fired. There was no noise, the useless piece of shit had jammed. This never happened to Dirty Harry. As Ed tried to clear the stoppage he noticed he was holding a spatula. Welcome to the night train he thought, throwing the weapon to the ground.

Continued...Next Page (2/2)

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