The Accidental Tourist

Albert burped. An earthy taste filled his mouth and his stomach rolled. The little meal he had eaten wasn’t sitting well and he told his colleagues that it might be for the best if he went home.

It was a cold and drab afternoon when he laid down on his bed and closed his eyes. The two men who saw him home safely continued to watch him closely as he drifted into a half-sleep.

Thirty minutes later, Albert sat up. A trickle of sweat rolled down from his temple.

He sat still for a moment, staring straight ahead. He was no longer in his home.

“How did I get... here?” he said out loud.

The walls around him now were made of hewn stone and covered with drawings. Turtles, crocodiles, eagles, jaguars, ocelots. All leaping from the walls and morphing to life in vibrating hues of blue and green and red.

A heavy smell of smoke and corn permeated his sinuses and it was pleasant to him. The air was warm and wet.

He noticed a small opening in the wall to his left and approached it. It was a window and it looked out upon a fantastic scene: thousands of brown-skinned people marched in procession below, singing and chanting, carrying torches along a path of snowy-white rocks.

“Aztecs!” he shouted, “I’m in Mexico!”

“Albert,” a voice spoke from behind him.

Albert turned.

Coming towards him was a priest. He wore a jade headdress and around his neck hung a long cord, the end of which held a fierce-looking obsidian knife.

Albert knew he was to be sacrificed, his heart cut out.

He laughed.

The effects of the mushrooms that LSD-pioneer Albert Hoffman consumed in furtherance of Robert Wasson’s experimental “trip” of June 29th, 1955 lasted for six more hours.

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