The Great Acid Fiasco (Final Part) [8.30.12]

This is an example of a play that's a great idea and theory and not in execution. It is very rushed because I always intended on finishing this play but was pressed for time to do the research, so though it is very short and a tiny bit shallow - I intend to flesh it out and learn more about this case and make a full length play out of it someday. Hopefully you will enjoy the final part of "The Great Acid Fiasco"

#30: THE GREAT ACID FIASCO

(PART TWO)

Based on the case Pickard Vs. Skinner

Written

by

Sean Pollock

MOMENT: TRIPPING GONE SOUR

(Lights up in a random house in Kansas. By this point, Gordon has moved his operation to Topeka and are pushing there. It is just Gordon and a bunch of RANDOM HIPPIES—a noted one being PAUL HULEBAK, an especially close friend of William’s. A record is playing trippy music. There’s a couch and a few chairs. They are all smoking as theyre tripping)

GORDON: What do you guys think?

RANDOM HIPPIE 1: Shit is intense.

RANDOM HIPPIE 2: My brain’s like scrambled eggs.

RANDOM HIPPIE 1: I don’t know if I can finish this j, man.

GORDON: Come on, you can do it.

(Random Hippie 1 takes a hit)

GORDON: Told ya.

RANDOM HIPPIE 1: (passing it to #2) Here.

(Random Hippie 2 takes a hit. Random Hippie 3 enters with a jar of urine)

RANDOM HIPPIE 1: Dude, man—what is that guy holding?

GORDON: Dude I think it’s his own piss.

(They both laugh hysterically. Random Hippie 2 laughs so hard he drops the j. He picks it up)

RANDOM HIPPIE 1: Dude pass that shit to Paul, I think he needs it.

(Random Hippie 2 gets up and tries to pass the j to Paul Hulebak, slumped over in a chair)

RANDOM HIPPIE 2: Yo, take a hit off this man.

(No response from Paul)

RANDOM HIPPIE 2: Yo, Paul, you alright?

(He tries pushing him. Paul falls over)

GORDON: What the fuck?!

(He goes over to Paul and tries shaking him)

GORDON: He’s not getting up.

RANDOM HIPPIE 3: Maybe he’s like…passed the fuck out or something.

(William checks his pulse and backs out in fright)

GORDON: Oh my god. He’s dead.

RANDOM HIPPIE 1: Don’t say that man, you’ll ruin the trip.

GORDON: No. I mean it. He’s dead. He took painkillers with this too—right?

(No response)

WILLIAM: Oh god. Someone call 911. He’s dead. He’s really dead.

(William starts crying. Everyone begins to scream. Pure chaos. The trippy music playing begins to sound all warped, and the lights turn a firey red. Lights fade…)

MOMENT: THE TRIP

(Lights up on an ANONYMOUS PERSON describing their tripping experience)

ANONYMOUS: People ask me, “What is tripping like?” And I tell them—well, define “trip”. (beat) According to dictionary.com the word trip is a noun. It is defined as "A journey or voyage, or run made by a boat, train, bus or the like, between two points." (beat) However, what Dictionary.com fails to mention is that a trip can be made by a vehicle much smaller. Much lighter. Try a piece of paper.

Or two piece of paper. Or three. Whatever's most preferable.

Some piece of paper dipped in chemicals in some lab or in some basement of some house in god knows where that was handed to you by a guy that had it handed to him from some other guy who had it handed to him from some other guy, and so on and so forth. Or maybe the process was more or less removed than that even. Doesn't matter. But what does matter is that that piece of paper will take you on a crazier fucking trip than a boat, a train, or a bus or "the like", whatever the fuck that means, can take you. And as cliche as it sounds, you're going on a trip that will take you into the deep far corners your mind. And into the mind of everyone tripping around you. And that trip goes in and out and around and sideways and in every direction imaginable. And you're thinking about nothing and everything, all at the same time. And you're thinking, god, when will this be over so I can just get back to reality? And just when you think you're gonna go back to reality, it just keeps coming back. It lingers. It just sits there in your brain for what seems like ever, asking you that same question, and every time you let that piece of paper go underneath your tongue it just keeps coming back: what is the overall purpose. What am I doing. And you just keep asking yourself this question endlessly. In circles. Around and around, over and over. What's the purpose. What am I doing. Over and over and over again.

And it lasts for what seems like days and that it's never going to end, only the truth is that it will. Only once it leaves, it still doesn't fully leave for another few days. Or weeks. Or months. Whenever you stop having flashbacks. And I guess it never really leaves. They say it stays in your spine forever or something, right? That concept alone still continues to haunt the fuck out of me. Years will pass by and someday I might lose it and forget all of this. But my spine never will. It's always going to be in there until the day I die. And I'm okay with that. To an extent. I mean it's not like I can just edit undo that trip can I?

What's funny is that some people say that taking this stuff enables others to see the real you. And I agree with that. You see each other in a more primitive light. You see people for who they truly are. At their core. At their most fucked up. It's crazy to think how this stuff can make a twenty two year old woman giggle like an eight year old school girl.  But the truth is that It's just you, a handful of friends, maybe some markers and some things for you to smoke along the way, and you're all just losing your shit. And then you realize how simple it all is, but then at the same time how fucking complicated everything is. Sentences are complicated. Verbalizing coherent thoughts are complicated. But somehow, you feel above it all. And especially when you're around people who aren't tripping, you feel like you know the answers. You've seen the other side. You've been in the fucking Twilight Zone for shit's sake. You feel different. You feel  a caucus race of emotions. Overwhelmed, scared, a tinge of regret, but also happy. But euphoric happy. The kind of happy where literally everything is hilarious and you can't help but just roar with laughter. I mean real laughter. You feel the laughter begin to form in your belly and just jump out of your body. To the point where it makes you cry. But, you know what they say? "It's not tripping till somebody cries".

I guess what people don't realize is that in order to take a trip to another world, you don't need a bus, a train or a boat, or even a fucking space shuttle. You just need this one piece of paper. And you'll go to a world where you're in another reality. A reality only you and the people tripping are seeing. And that's all that matters. And that's all that really needs to matter.

And granted, you will worry. You'll worry your tits off. Am I saying the right thing? How do other people view me right now? Am I being too loud? Am I making any sense at all? Is so and so mad at me? You think about the people you miss. You think about your identity. You think about how you're just an extension, an appendage, of other people tripping. You think that you're him and she's her and her is him and he is her and you're all just bound by the same piece of paper on the same trip, and in the end, even though it'll stay in your spine for the rest of your life, in a few hours time, it'll just become another memory. And you think about how unbelievable it was. You just encountered a brief visit to another world and just like that, it's all gone.

But it was more than just a brief visit to another world.

It was a trip.

MOMENT: CARETAKERS

(Lights up on an anonymous BABYSITTER, who used to watch Skinner’s kids)

BABYSITTER: When I was a teenager, I used to watch Gordon Skinner’s kids. And it’s crazy that you think you’re just babysitting some rich guys kids and all of a sudden you’re in the middle of a drug investigation, but I can’t say I was surprised. I mean the guy would give me over $230 bonuses, he was making so much money. And I never thought anything of it, you know…I mean, here he was—living and operating out of this huge factory I guess he inherited from his family somehow—it never occurred to me what was going on in it and I was right in the middle of it but didn’t even know it. (beat) As it turns out though, Skinner did always struggle financially which I was also surprised about. I later discovered that he was always at the casinos on the weekend, and always lost.  

(Lights rise on KATHERINE, Skinner’s Mom)

KATHERINE: So I got a call from William Pickard, who I had only met a few times—I mean I knew he was living with my son, and to tell you the truth—I was a little weirded out by him at first, but anyway, he calls me in a frenzy saying that something’s wrong with Gordon, that he’s blowing money and is spiraling out of control and needs help—I mean all of this stuff…I didn’t even know what to think of it. He told me that he was crashing cars and losing money and all this wreckless behavior, and I always knew that Gordon was…well, accident prone—but to tell you the truth, it wasn’t until the trial that I really knew the severity of his drug problem. I knew that Gordon had gone to jail for marijuana a few years back, but then he got his act together and got out and said “Mom, I’m gonna stop using drugs and I want to start a business and turn my life around”. So I gave him the warehouse from the factory his father and I used to own, and sure enough, he used it to manufacture drugs.

BABYSITTER: So they were making all this acid, right? I also heard they used to throw huge parties—even Sting bought acid from these guys. I mean I guess they were sort of on-and-off because Gordon Skinner was known to be such a slimey person, but eventually, as they say…all good things must come to an end.

MOMENT: THE HOTEL ROOM

(Lights up on Gordon in a hotel room. A knock at the door)

GORDON: Come in.

(Enter William, with a suitcase)

GORDON: Hey, how you doin man?

WILLIAM: I’m alright. Let’s make this fast, Natasha is waiting in the lobby.

GORDON: Ok, how much you got?

WILLIAM: 100 sheets. Just like you asked.

GORDON: Do you have the liquid too?

WILLIAM: Yes, but only a little bit.

(He gives Gordon a vile)

GORDON: I’m thinking of having another warehouse.

WILLIAM: Oh?

GORDON: Yeah, off-shore. Join me.

WILLIAM: Gordon, I can’t.

GORDON: Why?

WILLIAM: I can’t commit to doing that. I can’t work with you.

GORDON: C’mon, William.

WILLIAM: I have Natasha—and kids—

GORDON: Just cmon, think of it as drug research. That’s what we’re doing.

WILLIAM: I—

GORDON: William, come on. Don’t be stupid. Agree to make LSD with me. Off-shore. Off-sight. No one will ever know.

(A silence)

WILLIAM: Fine. I’ll do it.

(All of a sudden, a bunch of POLICEMEN burst through the door)

POLICEMAN: William Pickard, you are under arrest for possession and manufacturing of LSD. You have the right to remain silent.

WILLIAM: What are you doing? Stop! Get off of me!

(They arrest him)

WILLIAM: You set me up, Gordon! You set me up!

(William starts kicking and screaming)

WILLIAM: It was for research! It was always for research! Please let me go!

POLICEMAN: We’ll see how that holds up in court, scum.

MOMENT: REDDIT POST

(Lights rise on a Redditer)

REDDITER: Redditers—today I learned that from 1991—2001 90% of the World’s Acid LSD was made by one man.

(Enter Smokekeef—a Redditer user)

SMOKEKEEF: Reply: TIL that from 1991—2001 90% of the World’s Acid LSD was made by one man. (beat) I wrote a letter to this guy and he wrote me back! Let me see if I can find it. (beat) Edit: found it! I only have a shitty iphone camera. Used to have a DSLR but my ex lost that to the pawn shop. Long story. Here is the letter.

(Enter William, in a prison uniform)

WILLIAM: Dear smokekeef,

Thank you for your kind letter of 26 April 2007. I must apologize for the long delay in repsonding, for legal issues are pressing and there are many demands and deadlines. In the future, I will respond promptly.

You might tell me a little of your life and interests, so that we can begin exchanges from there.

Life here is, as you might imagine, somewhat as if one were stuck in a swiss clock - very routine and boring for most, although my days are almost too exciting in terms of interesting projects.

Indeed it is a prison with sporadic violence by stabbings, the occasional homicide, and other pursuits of disparate and idle minds.

I was pleased to hear in your letter that you're interested in the practice of meditation. I do wish that had been a personal habit earlier in life, in the teens or twenties, for it would have been very helping in sorting out life's challenges. I encourage you in the practice.

Thank you for writing and I look forward to hearing from you.

Best regards, Leonard.

(Lights fade)