Underplugged #6: “Nostalgia University”
During a recent check-up, seeing Doc Montgomery, he brings up what research has shown to be the most effective treatment for the Dream Parasite: healthy doses of hallucinogenic compounds and painkillers. They’re fast-acting and highly efficient, yet the Primary Source stigmatizes this approach, deeming it “fit for a sperg on one of their ‘benders’.” Most, if not all, are prohibited from using and possessing in the F.S.A. My last frequented pill mill closed its doors last month. I spent two grueling weeks stone cold sober before I scored again.
The Doc hands me a piece of paper with the number belonging to Professor Tom of Nostalgia University. (Nostalgia University is the school specializing in “anesthesia therapies” helpful for resetting tolerance, the addicted brain, and the depression produced by the Dream Parasite.) Calling up the professor, I was pleased when he shared his regimen. He goes on about some supratherapeutic dosing schedule using cough medicine to induce a euphoric catatonia. With the awareness of Benadryl®’s delirious side effects, nothing made me question his claims. Most formulations contain the potent dissociative dextromethorphan (DXM) in place of the old-school codeine ones. Additives are normally mixed in to offset abuse. But Professor Tom brings up a Robitussin® pure formulation that comes in liquid gelatin capsules—fucking dirt cheap, he says. Six bucks a pop! So why not?
I was so hooked that the first bottle was emptied in a day, I ordered another shipment containing four this time, and finished them in three days flat. When money was short, I’d pocket Delsym® syrup (an extended-release version) from the local drug store to equal my usual 450 mg. This was the norm for several months, being an unemployed cough syrup fiend. Friends threw around the nickname the “Cough Syrup Priest”, which over time I grew to admire.
Good? Bad? Why bother with that? Observation reigns supreme over any pipe dream defecated by pruddies. I disposed of the reluctance after five sufficiently-dosed trips… The taste, from bitter than dirt to sweeter than dark chocolate overnight, launched a hellish fling with this succubus, with me a victim and her the delusive source of my comfort.
Truly something inspirational, in more ways than what intuition would lead you to believe. Wasting away on street pills does me no good anymore, with my dope-dealing super prick favoring the budding fentanyl market and others unimpressed with hallucinogenic compounds; these types rather shoot up and cover themselves head-to-toe with needle wounds and abscesses (hell, wouldn’t surprise me if those freaks had a “thing” for sucking one another’s battle scars). It’s always the same: too impulsive and lacking the proper understanding of what “intensive treatment” really is.
The Dream Parasite symptoms attenuated with daily lectures by Professor Tom, soon being replaced with powerful content and functional hypomania… or so I thought once it entered through the injection site and ate away at both mind, soul, and spirit… Nothing left, robotic and lifeless, schizophrenic, and nonverbal… It happens with binges, which I’ve executed numerous times without much conflict… but this time, the delusions absorbed the spirit, imprisoned it, and kept it in a hidden spot from my subconscious—no way to escape the imminent peril now!
This is the only elixir to my misery… No choice but to pray it does the job… Losing sanity doesn’t sour the mouth as it used to… The chemical affair rids the waste like bathing and brushing your teeth… even the burden shuts it up… Oh well, no use to halt a highly intent man anyhow.
I took 30 gel caps, 6 o’clock sharp, one fateful evening. Euphoria came fifteen minutes later—physical self embraced by a serotonergic warmth; hardly unpleasant to the body. Blissful tingles coursed through my veins like Molly orgasms. I was wasted and stoned in a crossfade. Movements can be predicted ahead of time, but I could only move them in that direction as if “something” was sending me instructions. It was from here that I began turning into a slave for dexxing.
The physical anatomy fractured; nothing remained in the aftermath. Instead, I was a magnet, repelled from things in the second dimension and attracted to things in the third dimension. The claustrophobic walls of this disturbing prison spotted this, responding by reeling me to its center, ignoring mercy until my soul and essence were irrelevant.
I called for Darcy. He found me naked and vulnerable, presenting not quite right in the head. His response was to be amused; it was a sick entertainment that I couldn’t sway him from. Naturally, these side effects were expected before administration.
Measurement and time became abstract and “loose.” Linear models were of no use to a man without the proper eyes to define things. Numbers counted upwards but no longer had mathematical value, and events were either instantaneous or protracted.
It wasn’t even a full minute after his grand entrance that he begged me to redose. He was patiently waiting like a good schoolboy for what other stunts would manifest.
I caved in. What followed was an electrical wave, a fierce vibration broadcasting from my spine… then BOOM!
Jesus! What kind of demented shit am I getting into? Did the world disappear? Did time stop? Was I in purgatory? Are all things merely an exaggerated product of optic nerve computation of external sensory input?
“So long, sorry fool,” said a distant male voice, in traditional brogue.
That man isn’t in tune with this brittle carpet caressing both face and torso. He refuses to see the helpless nature of this DP/DR patient, balls-deep in psychological syphilis mucus.
“Not there, buddy. You’re going off to Terminal Zero, a place worse than Hell!”
He sees not the addict flesh (membranes made for long-time binge users) from within muscle and bone, burning further by the second; nor the Dream Parasite whipping up paranoid schizophrenia and hellscape obscenity—at a low price!
“Hon, what ya on ’bout? Sound super duper zonked to me,” remarked a masculine voice, far back, much like the man from earlier.
“O n’ can ya score me ‘nother thing of black tar pretty please?”
Busy working, man! On this odd behavioral artistry project: the clock ticks are disrupted… titles are out of focus… the handles are removed… But no more sickness… eternal silence.
Now observe the skeleton from within, with telepathy and clairvoyance and increased synaptic pruning and hollow shells raped of goodness and methheads strung out on intravenous Cialis and autopsy pornography, blurred vision staring deep into Terminal Zero.
“Why, hon? Em’ feelings are strong right now… I might getcha somethin’ reeeeeeal gooooood from Kasimir. Bein’ all freaky ain’t the way to go, y’know? I can give ya some of mine if ya chill… just noooooood… reminiscence n’ good stuff, uh-huh. Need ‘bit of some good ole coziness in that noggin’ of yours; overworking it all the time, ya dig?”
“Hon, hearing me loud ‘nuff? Tell me ya are—”
Listen to my poems, of verses fornicated by phenethylamine gangrene found in homosexual post-surgery medication junkies. You’ll know then of the addict flesh sacrifice of self-murder, necessary for outsmarting the Controllers.
“I heard ‘nuff of ‘em poems already, hon! I don’t need to sacrifice my soft, pretty skin. Sista Morphine ought to be my gospel like Matcha is for em’ monks. Y’know I need em’ meds after surgery to kill em’ icky feelings, uh-huh?”
Opinions on the new estrogen pharmaceutical Phenestrogamine®, the most effective treatment for unhealthy masculinity?
“Ain’t them hormone experiments be turning men into satyrs n’ women into nymphos? Trannies ain’t born from pills, hon. We peeps lackin’ what them suit n’ ties want. But uhhh s-sure, can’t hurt to fill up a macho with it.”
Imagine being a robot created by humans... You don’t have a mother, your father is a Chinese engineer, but your father never shows you any affection because he never even ponders the idea that you might be alive... Your father works for a Chinese pig processing plant, and your only purpose in life (at least in the eyes of your father) is to use your robotic arms to rip the skin off dead pigs so they can be further processed into consumable meat-like products.
“Fair’nuff!”
Underplugged © 2025 by James Ridner is licensed under CC BY-NC 4.0.