Don't be frightened. This was intended to mimic W.S. Burroughs. OK, I guess be frightened.

October 29th, 2008.
Manhappenin'.
In search for some relief we took our subject, an O.D.ing-mixed-breed-bipolar-paranoid-schizophrenic kid, to this polyglot of a Russian Shaman. A spiritual materialist he was. He had some deeply rooted obsession with handling mixed breeds in a "magic circle"—a pair of words he repeated to coax the participants into obeisance. Typically, he conducted ceremonies in that circle to invoke or wake up Grandmother and Grandfather. Our Shaman spent a great deal of time in Amazonia, where he learned direct from the Shamans proper. (Note: Grandmother and Grandfather are phone-tap-safe alternative names for Ayuahuaska and San Pedro respectively.)
Well the O.D.ing one couldn't be brought down as we tried to pour the viscous brown mixture down his throat. It was full of tongue—clogged with frothy mucous bodily excrement or just disintegrating evidence of the medicine cabinet cocktail he managed to concoct. I found him floundering dry heaving bubbles. His skin boiled and limbs flailed shapeshifting maybe into another kind of man.
On dark days, he took to digging through his neighbors' sock drawers or nightstands. Something always turned up whether it was an expired bottle of codeine or oxycotton or even some prescription cough syrup. He took it all in any case just to get that whipping sense of lift. Stumbled often to the fridge to take a few hits off the canned whipping cream. That became all the comedy on subsequent mornings when his parents tried to top their waffles and all that sputtered out was some white wet fart resembling that shitty froth he had tried to vomit the previous night.
Grandmother was like straight acid scraping the internal organs like it was nobody's business. If she had her way with you, she'd take your head right off. She would've been kind to this one. Wrap around him and reveal her self as a protective vine, but he had his fill. His nerves took over and there was no mind in that body, just electricity and chemicals back to electricity shocking stopping and shocking again. He laughed reflexively and battered himself as though demon-possessed—smashing the back of his skull into the edge of the brick fireplace. His pupils slid upward as if to gaze up at his fluorescent halo. I took the fiberglass insulation and laid it all about him to catch his fall, but he got microscopic glass slivers in his rashing epidermis.
He wasn't trying to die out of his half-life. Taking in by mouth or smoke might make him double alive. I thought I might reverse the situation by telling him that everything was its opposite, but this disturbed his nervous system even more. Every nerve was crossing and crossing back again. Like a braid of sensory overload he was visibly tangled inside and then a full blackout. Just humming. Buzzing.