The Secret DJ tells a story of taking magic mushrooms on a flight to Miami

“Am I? Makes a change. Tsssst, hehe … oo. Watch! Watch! Watch this!” I pressed the call button again. The attendant appeared.

“Yes sir?”

“Ppppfffftt…. hhh hhhf … excuse me …. tssssfff pppffft hehehehehe … HOW HIGH ARE WE? Hahahhahaha! HAHAHAHAHA!”

“About thirty thousand feet, sir.”

“Aaaah …hahahahahaha! hehehehe ffffft!”

My Tour Manager intervened. “I’m terribly sorry, but he’s a bit simple.”

“Pfffffft hahahahaa!”

“He’s a sort of high-functioning savant. I’m his doctor – pleased to meet you.” He was doing his best to shine, waggling his ridiculous eyebrows at her in an almost passable impression of a civilian. Normality was never his strongest attribute.

“Doctor!? Hahahahaha! Excuse me! EXCUSE ME! How high are we now? Pffffttttt. Doctor!”

“Yes, it’s quite a sad story really. I may need some help with him at the other end. I have to say, you seem like a very capable young lady; perhaps you could assist me? Have you ever considered the nursing profession…”

He warbled on, looking to me exactly like a total freak pretending to be something else. The stewardess seemed to see through it too, as she was backing away as professionally as she could without bolting, causing a massive panic and possibly explosive decompression.

“Bit stuffy in here, needs a door opening” I burbled vacuously.

The Tour Manager replied by twisting both nozzles above me and sending a jet of arctic air into both my dry eyeballs with an effect not unlike Mace. I don’t remember anything else.

Next we were floating across a strange, featureless desert planet made of indistinct haze and what seemed to be boiling hot tarmac. Well… my Tour Manager seemed to be floating. I was more rolling. He was pushing me along in an airline-issue wheelchair. I wheezed indignantly at him.

“It was this or getting carried off the plane strung up by their paramilitary police,” he replied, wearily. “You nearly emptied the whole plane singlehanded while it was in the air. The noises coming out of you were goatish. Some Exorcist-level honking. Vomit was sort of green, too.”

“Ah. Can you go a bit faster? It’s very hot.”

“Welcome to Miami. Please fuck off and have a nice day,” he countered, topically.