The strange saga of Mr. George Blake - Chapter V

George stared through the pulsating tunnel with wonder. Why were these men dressed like Good Humor Ice Cream salesmen and why did they have giant squid wrapped around their necks? It was very curious, to say the least. He couldn't make out their language but they seemed to be trying to communicate with him. Unfortunately, they spoke in a modulated foreign tongue somewhat like a slowed down family of bassoons on an underwater diving expedition.

"Mr. Blake, Mr. Blake, can you hear me?"

George Blake blinked his eyes twice as the picture suddenly started to come into focus. The ice cream man had morphed into a thirty something intern, staring at a clipboard. He put his hand on the side of George's neck and sought to measure the size of his glands. George tried to raise his head, but the effort was beyond his strength and he dropped back onto the pillow.

"Where the hell am I," George muttered.

"Please Mr. Blake, don't try to talk. You are in the hospital and everything is going to be ok."

George looked at him suspiciously. He never trusted young doctors. What the hell did they know, you can't learn anything out of a book? Give him a man who had time to already make all his mistakes, he always said...

George's mouth was dry and he made a motion like he was raising a glass and the older nurse who had been staring at him brought him a styrofoam cup of ice chips. The taste of the chips was antiseptic and thoroughly unrefreshing but provided just enough lubrication to allow him to speak.

"What the hell happened to me?" Blake asked.

The doctor sat on the edge of the bed and tapped the edge of his clipboard. He turned his head quickly and looked Blake straight in the eye.

"Sir, we are still running tests, but you have some very unusual chemicals in your system. Can you tell me what you took?"

"I didn't take anything," Blake indignantly sputtered. "I was on my way to work and I ate breakfast, and the next thing I know I wake up on this gurney." "I won't even take an aspirin. Ask Dolores."

"Who is Dolores, sir?"

"My wife, goddamit." Scanning the room, he realized that they were alone. Where was Dolores?

"I am going to be frank with you Mr. Blake. Our preliminary tests show that you have a very rare alkoloid in your system called dimethyl tryptamine. Have you ever heard of it?"

George silently shook his head no in amazement.

"In the sixties it was called DMT. DMT contains a 5-HT2A receptor. It creates a very quick, very powerful hallucination that is even more intense than lsd. Lately those new age shamanic types have been using a form of it called ayahuasca that grows in South America. Have you been tripping around with the new agers lately, Mr. Blake?" he snickered sarcastically.

Blake again shook his head in the negative. They were Lutherans for god sakes. Once in a blue moon they would have a beer and a shot after the thursday bowling league but his sciatica had been acting up and life had been pretty much stone cold sober.

"Didn't think so. I'll tell you what's curious about this."

Blake raised an eyebrow, conscious of a bead of sweat that now rested on his brow.

"DMT is usually smoked and rarely effective orally ingested unless bound with another agent, a fluorescent alkoloid called harmaline. Many plants are producers of harmaline. Technically it's a monoamine oxidase inhibitor. Passionflower contains harmoline. Are you with me, Mr. Blake?"

George's head started spinning. Wasn't that one of the beautiful exotic flowers that Greta had been growing on the porch? He would remember if he had eaten a flower, wouldn't he?

"Oh, and another thing. I did a little quick research. DMT was used by the CIA during the MK Ultra experiments in the sixties as a form of mind control. I don't really know much about it. Have to go the Bio-Med library and read up. Please rest now, Mr. Blake. You are going to be fine." The doctor stood up, turned his back on Blake and left the room.

George Blake sunk back into his soporific stupor. He soon fell into a quick coma like sleep and had the most unusual dreams of gray helicopters and straightjackets and reptilian gods resting on purple toadstools.

r.s.