We'd found the big bastard down by the creek. Huddled in the reeds, big streaks of mucus all stuck to its back like a bad sneeze. As soon as it saw us it'd twitched its great scaly paws and tried to hotfoot it into the grass.
Remo was too quick for that and had his great hands around it before it'd crawled more than an inch.
"Come to Daddy, Mr. Bullfrog! Come and meet your maker!"
"Who gives a shit? We got ourselves a long night ahead!"
Remo had read about it in some UFO magazine he always bought, and we'd run down the creek as soon as he got over to my place.
"It's the ultimate high," he'd ranted at me, "Forget dope, acid, speed --this is the real deal … 100% natural-- better than sex! Says right here ... look!"
So there we were sitting cross-legged on the floor of Remo's garage. With a Miller each and a toad in a bucket.
"So who's gonna go first?"
Remo's eyes were flashing in that hyperactive star-spangled way of theirs.
"Man, I'd rather have a beer or a joint. Make that a beer and a joint."
"Come on, chicken little, smell that mother," he pushed the bucket under my snout. "Ain't that insane?"
The thing stank of rotten fish and piss, but there was another smell underneath, kind of root beerish.
I stared down into the bucket. The toad was badly trying to get out but its fat slimy fingers could get no grip on the steep plastic sides. I took another swig of beer and lit a Marlboro.
"We'll be trippin' out all night, man," Remo stuttered, "Man, this shit's gonna rock us to hell and back for sure!"
It was true. At least that's what the magazine'd said. Apparently, there was a craze for it over in Louisiana with toads being peddled like hash in the high schools.
"If this stuff hits us, we could make some dollars on the side," Remo beamed, "Remo and Titch, the Amphibian Black Market Bandits!"
"Okay, so what you got to do exactly? Just lick the bastard on the back?"
"It's not quite as easy as that. Okay, number one, first the toad's gotta be alive, which it is so we're cool there. Number two… and this is the big one … it's gotta be scared coz it only releases the chemicals when it's backed into a corner. And I don't just mean a tinsy winsy bit scared neither … it needs to be fucking petrified! Then, number three, when's it's really shittin' itself, not knowin' where to go or what to do, you lick it straight across the back! And bang, bang, bang, sit down and wait, my friend, and shit'll soon start happenin'!"
"It looks pretty scared already, all cooped up in that bucket..." I offered.
"Nah, reckon it's kinda acclimatised now, Titch. We gotta put the fear of god into the mean green bastard!"
Remo jumped forward, dropped his hands into the bucket and raised the wriggling creature toward his mouth. He then launched a high-pitched scream two inches from its face - man, I was scared let alone the goddamn toad - and then dragged his tongue straight across its warty back.
It writhed and squirmed but Remo held firm. I licked the beast while it was still in his hands.
"It tastes like Goddamn root beer as well! Shit!"
Remo stood up and threw the toad out the garage door. He passed me another Miller and we both lit Marlboros.
We sat back, swigged the beer, got rid of the taste and waited. We didn't have to wait long.
The first thing I noticed was the paint on the walls. One minute I was talking to Remo about some crazy hoof who'd been in the paper that week, held up a drug store packing a sawn off dressed as a nun, the next I looked up and the walls were just pissing paint. It was just drip, drip, dripping all over the shop - yellows, pinks, oranges, psychedelic swirls.
"Holy Christ, Remo, you see that?"
It'd hit him spot on right at the same time.
"Woah, Momma, hold on to yer head, Titch, this place is gonna really start rockin', now!"
Those early moments were just about the mellowest I'd had on substances. I just sat back on my haunches and watched the fireworks.
The backs of my hands were pulsating now, the veins standing up, wriggling like little worms, the tiny hairs growing into thick tufts - I felt like a Goddamn werewolf. And Remo's face was changing like he was one of them B-Movie shapeshifters - he'd go from Marilyn Monroe, to my Grandpa, to a Tiger, to just a bare-faced skull, all gnarled and twisted.
It was at this stage, I realised I couldn't control the stuff, my mind was away, and I couldn't hold it back.
"Man, Remo, this is getting kinda scary! Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit!"
The garage was full of little planets now, Saturn was floating above my head and the moon was rolling up, down, across the ceiling - and all the time, there was this flashing, like hundreds of fireflies were dancing the fandango.
I had this burning in my belly, this ache - like fire, like flames were shooting through my intestines. I could hardly see Remo now. He was just sitting, floating, his face a scowling skull. I couldn't switch it, couldn't get his real face back, his teeth were all splinters, his hair all blood red and spinning, like some voodoo nightmare.
It's then that the screaming began - Remo just lost it.
"I'm gonna die! I'm gonna die! Oh shit, help me, Titch, call 911, call 911! My legs have gone, I can't feel my legs!"
We were about an hour in, and there was no turning back, though I was managing to sober a little, probably coz of what was happening to Remo. He was bawling, really bawling now, rocking back and forth, banging his thighs, punching them.
"You'll be OK, man, you'll be fine. Just keep calm and let it wear off, let it wear off."
The burning in my stomach was getting so intense, and that's the last I can remember before I passed out.
Next thing I saw was the next morning - Remo was wrapped in a blanket shivering in the corner, you could smell the sickly stench of vomit. He was still crying. I found myself on the floor, head on the concrete, feeling sick as the sickest thing I could imagine.
"You, okay, Remo? You okay, man?"
"Look, Titch, I'm pretty Goddamn far from okay. You won't tell anyone about this will you?"
That was the last time I touched anything like that, one of the last times I saw Remo in fact. I realised that if you can't control what you're taking, it just ain't never gonna be any fun. Beer, a few spliffs - that was my limit from then on. Keep things real.
And Remo? Well, he didn't stop, just wasn't in his nature, probably the Italian from his dad's side. Last I heard, his Mum and Dad had sent him to some rehabilitation place up in the mountains - some narcotics boot camp for drug-addled losers.
I did bump into him in the mall just before that, and he looked right through me, totally scrambled. It was like looking at a zombie, all white face and bone.
