I’ll punch holes in the eyes of god. I was feeling mellow a while ago, but that’s changed. I’m gnawing on the jaw of a crystalline skull. Blood bursts in my temples. There are no kill switches or safety valves in this experience. Different highs are manifested depending on which part of the skull is consumed. For example, the mandible, on which I am masticating, is a powerful stimulant. Its ascending ramus produces mania bordering on rage. I began by licking the ocular orbits and hallucinating. Then I chewed on the skull cap and experienced a spell of careful introspection.

I like to take my time when gnawing on skulls, but there are those who break them open, eager to consume only a portion or a portion of a portion in order to get their specific high. They bash their skulls against the concrete floor in order to release the eye sockets or bust the molars free after disarticulating their jaws. They’re doing what they do best, destroying the brain case in order to get the perfect buzz. It’s true, you can get there from here, but you have to work at it. Some have deep scars about their face and neck from where jagged shards were consumed without caution, digging deep channels in their skin, each telling its own story, revealing a specific truth from which is impossible to hide. A birth defect would be easier to conceal.

Of course these skulls are purchased and consumed as standardized products, but like the lottery, they occasionally have a lucky winner; a special skull with the potential to deliver biochemical nirvana which is better than the most vile and forbidden sex. Chew on that skull and you’ll never need another.

Each tooth has a property which is distinct from the rest. For example, canines prompt an activation of the senses, an increased heart rate, and dilation of the pupils and bronchia so that more light and air can enter the body. In this sense it’s like the normal reaction to adrenaline. However, the skull eater may simultaneously experience feelings of peace and well being. It’s hard to say. It depends on the individual.

In one of the booths a patron is using a water pipe he’s rigged with a nitrous oxide shotgun. After hitting the bong, he triggers the nitrous and a cloud of it follows the smoke up the chamber and into his lungs. Unfortunately he hits the shotgun too early and the gas ignites from buds still glowing in the bowl.

There’s a flash which splits his ribs open. The man’s chest cavity is splayed like an overcooked Thanksgiving turkey. His ribs are ripped apart, with shards of skin hanging off of them. The lungs are blown out like shopping bags caught on a chain-link fence.

Everyone pauses for a moment before scrambling to the body, helping themselves to the contents of his chest cavity. I tear resin from his lungs, then reach into my pocket and stuff a bowl full of the tar encrusted sponge into my homemade pipe.

Swinging my Zippo open, I strike its flint then inhale the monstrously harsh smoke of man and hash, opium and salvia. His cancer fills my mouth and I force it down deep, and hold it.

The room swells for a moment before everything (the tables, lights and paintings) arc toward me. I am the center of the world. My gravity is so great that if I were to leave I’d pull the contents of the room with me. Its interior would be drawn in my wake like a page torn from a book.

My skull is temporarily abandoned. So I sit, beatific.