PCP Is A Helluva Drug, Reports Wandering Duck With Your Mom's Face

Story by Egon Sinclair 

| Published Feb 9, 2010

The behavior-altering effects of phenylcyclohexylpiperidine, better known by its street name PCP, can easily overwhelm the inhibitions and better judgement of a first time user, according to a duck wandering aimlessly about your apartment. The meandering water fowl addressed you and all your worldly possessions (most of which had suddenly achieved sentience) by way of your mother's face, disproportionately large and comically perched atop the creature's squat, semi-aquatic frame.

The encounter reportedly "freaked you the fuck out," according to sources close to you, the number of which grew exponentially as time passed and the room started shrinking. Following the wholesale destruction of your sense of self and a panic attack that dredged up years of embarrassing repressed memories (like the one time you tripped Whitney Kleinwalter during a game of freeze tag in sixth-grade gym class because she was so fast and it just wasn't fair and you made her cry and cry and cry), you decided going for a drive might calm your nerves.

The maternally visaged avian immediately vetoed the idea, shrilly declaring you "shouldn't be driving right now. Your license is expired!" and that also that, for some reason, you were now immune to bullets. The horrifying Dr.Moreau-inspired hybrid continued the scolding, stating you should have shopped around before you bought an entire sherm stick of angel dust from a guy who was only "pretty sure 'embalming fluid' was just a slang term and not an actual ingredient [of PCP]."

The sprightly blonde on the Home Shopping Network who was staring, like, right at you, agreed with your mother/duck. After trying to sell you a lovely filigreed necklace made from spines, she calmly explained the $30 you spent on the Schedule II narcotic could have gone toward bills or gas or even fixing that hole you punched in the wall between the living room and the kitchen. As of press time, no one seemed to care the only reason you'd mercilessly pummeled the drywall with your bare hands was that you were hungry and didn't want to use the hallway because it was a motherfucking lion.

As the mental strain of the ordeal reduced you to a depraved, perpetually muttering psychopath, the duck wobbled over to offer a few comforting words.

"It'll all be over real soon, honey--I promise," the abomination said, giggling manically as its pupils swelled to the size of bottle caps. That is unless you'd mistakenly overdosed, in which case the trip could last upwards of a month. But either way, she added, you were still her "special little guy, quack, quack."