Dave and I had finally moved in together, setting up shop in a furnished bachelor pad in San Diego. It was the kind of place two young idiots like us could thrive—cheap rent, minimal rules, and just enough space to wreck havoc. The fridge was a shrine to minimalism, housing nothing but a giant industrial can of menudo and a couple of bulk boxes of corn dogs. Nutritionally speaking, we were kings of the processed food world. For protein, I’d scoop the congealed fat off the top of the menudo and zap it in the microwave. As for drinks, we kept it classy with Mickey’s Big Mouths, those grenade-shaped bottles of malt liquor that made you feel like a soldier in the war on sobriety.
Life was good, simple, and utterly chaotic. On weekends, we’d prowl around Mission Bay, joining the scene of young rebels gathered at the local coves—dolphin cove, vacation cove, you name it. The parking lots were packed with 20-somethings strumming guitars, smoking dope, and playing hacky sack. It was a sea of sweat, smoke, and questionable decision-making, and we loved every second of it.
But one day, while Dave was at work, I decided to take some “me time.” And by “me time,” I mean I dropped a couple of hits of acid.
The trip started slow, with that familiar creeping intensity that pulls you out of reality and drops you somewhere between “Is this real life?” and “What the hell am I doing?” It was quiet in the apartment, just me and the sounds of the world outside. That’s when I noticed the tree outside the window.
It was one of those fluffy red trees—the kind hummingbirds flock to like crackheads to a corner dealer. I could hear the faint buzz of their wings through the screen, and for reasons I can’t explain, it freaked me out. The sound was too sharp, too alien. I grabbed my BB gun.
I sat there, motionless, waiting for one of those little bastards to land. The moment it did, I took aim, gently squeezed the trigger, and pop—a tiny hole in the screen and a dead hummingbird on the sidewalk below.
Curiosity got the better of me. I ran downstairs to inspect my first kill. As I picked up the tiny bird, I noticed something else on the ground—a bug. Not just any bug, though. This thing was prehistoric, beefy, and downright terrifying. It looked like a miniature alien, its strange legs and antennae twitching like it was sending a message back to its mothership. Naturally, I decided it needed to be crucified.
I grabbed the TV’s old metal antenna and some electrical tape and got to work. I taped its legs to one side, its arms to the other, and when I was done, it looked like some kind of sacrificial idol. The thing twitched and chirped, making noises that sounded suspiciously like words. High as I was, I was convinced it was trying to communicate.
Back to the window. The hummingbirds kept coming, oblivious to the carnage below. One after another, I loaded my BB gun, pumped it a couple of times, and picked them off. Each shot was like a victory, a small triumph in my acid-fueled war against the natural world. Meanwhile, the bug—my newfound friend—seemed to cheer me on, its strange noises adding a surreal soundtrack to the madness.
The floor around me became a battlefield of beer bottles and BBs. I was having the time of my life, completely lost in this bizarre world I’d created. Hours passed like minutes, and by the time Dave came home, I’d lost count of how many hummingbirds had fallen.
Dave walked in with his baby’s mama, one of his regulars, and immediately froze. “What the fuck happened here?” he asked, his voice equal parts shock and disbelief.
“What?” I shrugged, holding my BB gun like a proud hunter.
The living room was a disaster. Beer bottles were scattered everywhere, the screen was riddled with tiny holes, and the crucified bug chirped madly from its perch on the TV. Tina stood there, wide-eyed, as Dave marched to the window.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he muttered, looking down at the carnage below.
There, on the sidewalk, lay at least eight hummingbirds, their tiny bodies arranged in a macabre display of my “work.” Dave’s jaw tightened as he turned to me.
“What the hell is wrong with you?”
Before I could answer, there was a knock at the door. The landlord, a stern woman with no patience for our antics, stormed in. She didn’t even need to ask—her eyes went straight to the window.
“Get your asses down here. Now.”
They followed her outside, trailing behind like reluctant parents. Standing on the sidewalk, she pointed at the dead birds and then at the screen. “Are you two nuts? Look at this! What the hell is going on?”
Dave tried to explain. I stayed quiet watching from above, hoping my silence would somehow absolve me. But then, from inside the apartment, came the sound that sealed my fate—a loud, screeching chirp from the crucified bug.
The landlord’s head snapped toward the noise. She marched back inside, followed by Dave and Tina. I turned around, watching as they entered the living room and laid eyes on my masterpiece.
“What the fuck is that?” the landlord asked, pointing at the bug.
It twitched and chirped, its taped limbs stretched out like some insect Jesus. Dave looked at me, his face a mix of anger and disbelief.
I don’t know how Dave managed to talk her out of evicting us, but somehow, he did. That night, as we sat in the wreckage of the living room, he gave me a long, disappointed look.
“No more acid,” he said.
I nodded, knowing he was right. The bug, the birds, the whole damn day—it was too much. I swore off acid for a while after that, sticking to Mickey’s and cigarettes like a good, responsible idiot.
To this day, I still don’t know what that bug was. But I swear, it had a voice, and for a few hours, it was my only friend. Just another day in paradise.
