Scary Horror Stories by Dr. NoSleep - We Took a Drug Called Stardust—It Hatched Something Inside Us

Episode Date: July 17, 2026

In the 1980s, a mysterious drug called Stardust promised users the chance to experience impossible worlds and entirely new lives. But when one man’s body begins changing from the inside out, it becomes clear that Stardust isn’t creating hallucinations—it’s bringing something back. Listen ad-free, get over 90 exclusive bonus stories and early access to multi-part stories with a 7-day FREE TRIAL of Dr. NoSleep Premium: ⁠⁠⁠patreon.com/drnosleep⁠⁠ – Cancel anytime. No commitment. Huge thanks to our sponsors: BetterHelp: Sign up now and get 10% off at ⁠betterhelp.com/dns⁠. Shopify: You don’t need anyone’s approval to make a living. Build your own business with a free trial at shopify.com/dns Sleep Doctor: Take back your sleep. Find out how at sleepdoctor.com. Author:  Chase Shustack Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

This episode is sponsored by BetterHelp. We talk about mental health more openly now, but asking for help can still feel really hard, and BetterHelp's latest research confirms it. Their 26th State of Stigma Report surveyed 2,000 Americans and revealed that 85% of Americans believe getting support is wise, yet 74% say society discourages people from doing so. The gap between knowing support makes sense and actually taking the step is something we all can help close by encouraging friends and loved ones when they're struggling. Better help makes it easier as the world's largest online therapy platform with over 30,000 licensed therapists who've helped

more than 6 million people. Clients give live sessions a strong 4.9 out of 5 average rating from over 1.7 million reviews. They match you thoughtfully via a quick questionnaire and let you switch therapists at any time. Don't let stigma stand in the way of support. Start therapy with better help. and get 10% off at BetterHelp.com slash D-N-S. That's better-h-E-L-P.com slash D-N-S. Stardust wasn't something you took on a Friday night to kill a few hours with a cheap high. This was the thing that Nancy Reagan used to get up on that podium

and harp to people about. No, hold on. You're too young to remember her. Do you remember those dare programs from when you were younger? The cop would stand in your classroom and drone on about how bad drugs are and how easy they were to get. This was the kind of thing those programs were trying to scare you away from, even if they didn't know this particular stuff existed.

Now, Stardust was around back in the 80s, believe me. But it wasn't the kind of thing every dealer had sitting in his jacket pocket. Most people had never even heard of it, and the ones who had usually knew better than to say much. You had to know the right people. or the wrong people, depending on how you want to look at it. Burned out musicians, rich kids chasing something stronger than acid, border town weirdos, occult types.

That was the sort of crowd it moved through. Every now and then, you'd hear some story about a guy getting caught with a coffee can full of the stuff hidden under his floorboards, or somebody disappearing after taking too much of it. But those stories never made the papers. They just got passed around like warnings. Oh, I'm not sure where it came from. Hell, I don't think anyone knows who invented it.

It wasn't like LSD, where everyone knew the name of the guy who came up with it. I heard someone say that it was cooked up by Santa Ria cultists on a ranch down in Matamoros. Allegedly, they'd smuggle it across the border inside hollowed out religious candles and little plaster statues of saints. One guy told me they found a whole truckload of Virgin Mary's once. Every single one packed full of orange tablets. Another story was that the feds rated a pizzeria owned by the cartel in Florida, and they found one guy with his head ripped clean off and crates of stardust piled up in the kitchen.

A buddy of mine, he's dead now, heart attack. He told me he heard it came from some Vietnam vet living out past Houston. A guy who cooked it up, trying to shut off the nightmares he brought back from the war. Story goes, he took so much of his own supply that they had to keep him locked up in a padded room at the local nut house. Ah, the point is that Stardust was out there back then if you knew where to look. It wasn't common, not really, but it had a way of turning up in the wrong rooms with the wrong people. And this was before anyone really understood the side effects of it. So whatever attention it got didn't start until, say, about 89 or 1990.

Which meant that... Did I ever take it? Well, of course I took it. You ask me what the strongest thing I've ever done is, and you expect me to go into this history lesson without saying I tried it? Granted, I only took it once when I lived in Los Angeles, but that was more than enough for me. This wasn't like taking a hit from a bong,

where you just lay out on the couch all day feeling like a ton of bricks. Star Dust was intense. And this is coming from the guy who spent half a while, winter, eating shrooms in a cabin. What was it like? Well, the kids back then called it body-tripping. There were other names for it, too, dream surfing and starwalking, but body-tripping was perhaps the most accurate way to describe it. They were people who would take a hit of stardust, and they'd spend their high trying to write down the things that they saw, things that they felt and heard and touched. They'd write it all of it down afterward, and pass the pages around like

they'd discovered some great truth. Half of it was nonsense, but they treated it like scripture. Some of them wrote about spending eons wandering a desert on their bellies like slugs, living as a giant jelly blob in the bones of a huge corpse, or living out 100 years as a pharaoh with the crocodile head and the body of a hippo in ancient Egypt. If I hadn't taken it myself, even just that one time, I would have written all of it off as drugged up nonsense from people who

wanted their bad trip to mean something. All right, all right, I'm getting to it. I was about 19, just a few months shy of turning 20. I was working out by the pier as a line cook and a grease-trap diner with two other guys. One was Darrell, and the other guy was a guy we called Scummy Pete, because he never showered, and he was always covered in friar oil. One night after work, see, we go down to the beach in Darrell's van. Night swim, get high, that sort of thing.

yada, yada. Daryl's telling us about this big stash he was able to score from a connection in Laurel Canyon, and he was saying that it was better than anything else he ever took. So we're down on the beach, around 11, and we're sitting in the back of this beater van watching as Daryl pulls out this little bag full of these tiny orange tablets, the size of tic-tacks, but rectangular. At first, me and Pete. Excuse me, scummy Pete. We're thinking that he scored us a bag of acid, right? We never did acid up until that point, so we're both pretty excited to give it a shot. But Darrell starts going on about how it's even better than that. He said he took half a tablet yesterday, and it gave him a better rush than even the $30 prime pot he got from those specialist

growers. Scummy Pete took it first, mainly because I was admittedly a little nervous to do it, and a guy like Scummy Pete would have smoked even crabgrass if you asked him to. I remember watching him swallow the tab and then just letting out this kind of loud, whooping noise. Not a bad kind, like he was in pain, but more like he was getting excited about something. Usually there's that little delay whenever you ingest or inhale whatever it is you're taking, maybe a couple minutes at most. With this, it was like the absolute second it touched Scummy Pete's lips, he was off like a rocket. Well, what do you think I did after seeing that?

I thought if Scummy Pete was having the time of his life already, what the hell was I waiting for? I take a tablet of stardust from Darrell, and I pop it right on my tongue, and I cannot stress enough how much it burned. I don't even mean it like you eat a hot pepper and the juices of it sting at your tongue. I mean, this was a cold burning, the kind you get when you're outside and below freezing weather, and the air stabs right through your skin. The coldness started spreading all throughout my body, starting from the coldness. my tongue up through my nose and down into my chest. I sat down on this big beanbag chair Darrell had crammed in there while feeling this intense, icy pressure squeezing all inside of me.

I can't even tell you how bad my head started to hurt, as all of this force was pushing up through my skull like it was a balloon. I usually handle my highs well, or at least, well enough that I don't freak out over them. But this was like having a vacuum full of icy cold air put over me, and he was trying to suck every last bit of blood and tissue out through my head. And then, right before I pass out from all the blood vessels bursting in my head, everything falls away. One minute, I'm curled up on this ratty bean bag in the back of this stinking van, and the next minute, I feel like I'm floating. I'm suspended, gliding without any direction. There's no weight or pressure on me anymore. I don't even feel the drag of my arms or my legs kicking around. It's,

What's the word? Being an incorporeal. Yeah, incorporeal. I feel like I'm moving, even though I can't actually see that I am. I'm moving at this incredible speed, and I can't tell whether I'm moving up or down. The bottom's been dropped out, and all I can do is just get dragged along. But I'm not floating through a tunnel or just hanging out in space. No, I was in a... It was like a huge room, with enormous emerald walls that leaned in toward each other. a concave auditorium. Everything was smooth and polished, with this unbelievably reflective quality that gave it the appearance of being in a hall of mirrors. I could hear music playing from somewhere,

or what I assumed was music at the time. This low, whistle-bubbling sound, you know? I don't know a better way to describe it, aside from picture hearing a flute being played from just beneath the surface of a pool. I look over to my right and there's this, I'm not even sure what I can call it, really. It wasn't a human, but it wasn't even an animal.

The best way I could describe it to you was that it looked like a cross between a squid and a mushroom. It had the wide cap part of a mushroom, except it looked like it was made of all these shining black plates, like what you'd see on a beetle, shifting and sliding up against each other. Beneath it, there was this mess of these squirming tentacles, or maybe they were arms, long and knotted like branches.

It had a body like a tree trunk, see? And its skin was like an elephant's, but all purple and brown. And what stuck out to me the most was that I couldn't see its face. I couldn't make out eyes or a mouth on it, though the moment I saw it, I knew right away that it noticed me. As I'm sort of floating there, without my arms or legs to defend myself, this thing starts walking toward me. The Hulu original series Furious is coming to Disney Plus,

starring Emmy Rossum. Furious follows FBI agent Alice Black on the hunt for a mysterious and calculating serial killer. Both walk their own paths toward justice, and as their lives start to intertwine, the line between right and wrong begins to blur. Don't miss the three-episode premiere of the Hulu original series Furious on July 27th, only on Hulu on Disney Plus. In Toronto, every arrival is a statement, and nothing says it better than this. Cadillac Optic was the number one selling luxury EV in Canada for 2025.

Find your rhythm across a seamless 33-inch display and an immersive 19-speaker AKG surround audio system. This city demands agility and optic delivers with precision to make every drive extraordinary. Let's take the Cadillac. Find out more at Cadillac Canada.ca. Luxury sales claim based on S&P Global Mobility Canadian New Vehicle Total Registrations for calendar year 2025 for the Cadillac definition of luxury. It had what I thought was a huge flipper, like a duck's foot. or whatever muscle clams have to drag itself toward me, I can still hear it, even after all this time.

This loud, wet, slapping as it shuffled toward me, all of its tentacles waving at me like they were eyeing me up. It was then I noticed that, at the end of each tentacle, was a huge watermelon-sized eyeball, a violet color with six orange pupils like the eye of a fly, and with a thick row of these wiggling lashes on the top and bottom. There must have been about eight eyes looking right at me from every angle. The funny part was that, despite the fact this thing was dragging itself toward me, I didn't feel afraid.

In fact, I felt calm. Could you believe it? I was right in front of this hideous monster, close enough that I could smell rotting ammonia coming off its pulpy fat skin, and I didn't feel scared. It's because I looked exactly like it. In the reflection of those bright green walls, I could see this pulpy, fungus-covered barrel monster, and I knew, I knew, on some deep, instinctual level that, that I was looking at myself. The ring of eyestocks, the big mushroom cap with the shifting plates, even down to all these shaggy black hairs around my midsection. I wasn't just seeing myself as something else.

I was something else. And it was the most calming sensation I had ever felt in my life. I stood there thinking to myself, this is it. This is who I am. I was always this, and whatever I felt and lived before was just a bad dream. You don't believe it, because you never lived it for yourself. This wasn't a cheap high where you see little colorful shapes or everything feels softer. I can remember pressing one of my forearms up against the wall and feeling how cold and smooth

it was. If I closed my eyes late at night, I could make out how the other creature was sliding one of its eye stalks around one of mine, how wet and warm it felt, real leathery flesh. And then it started speaking. It wasn't in English, obviously. but I still understood it. What it was I can't remember. Maybe some kind of prayer or a chant, I guess,

based on how energetic it sounded. I think I was chanting too. Like I was speaking this thing's chittering, gurgling language my whole damn life. The very last thing I remember before I woke up was watching as the other creature's midsection, where its face should have gone, opened up right down the middle like a zipper. This long bluish tongue wriggled out of the slit, skinny as a needle, but ending in a bumpy, horned point.

At least I think it was a tongue. Something about the way it moved made me think it was more like some kind of feeding tube. It looked almost like it was about to. I don't know by the way it moved. It looked almost erotic-like. It looked up over me, considered me a bit as it moved back and forth, all snake-like. And then whoop! Shot right down into me like a fist to the mouth.

I woke up half a second after that. I found myself laying in the surf, right around the first hour of sunrise. My clothes were soaking wet from the water, and there was sand filling my bottom lip. But all I cared about was trying to breathe. That lightness, that naturalness I was feeling earlier in that other body was gone. Instead, there was the feeling of being sore all over, that every part of me had been stomped on until every muscle was screaming. And I was afraid, too. I wasn't afraid at all before, while I was in the dream or whatever it was, but all of a sudden,

it came rushing over me in one big wave, like whatever I had just experienced was settling in. I almost threw up right then and there in the water. Scummy Peets lying in the back of the van all curled up, wearing nothing but his sneakers and his dirty denim jacket. Daryl, on the other hand, he's sitting out on the beach with this little propane grill. He's making eggs. He looks at me staggering, dragging myself up from the water on my knees and elbows, and he flashes me this crazy grin.

First time's always a ride, isn't it? He says to me. I didn't feel right for days after that. It was like I was suffering from a real bad hangover, like the kind I had at Jimmy's back at Christmas, and a concussion all at the same time. All of my senses felt off, not in tune or dulled. I couldn't taste right, and I had this love.

ringing in my ears, like everyone was either talking off key or too far away. I also got these bad shakes in my arms and my legs. I could be walking up steps, and suddenly my legs would suddenly give out, or I'm holding something and I throw it right down onto the floor without thinking about it. It was almost as if, and you'll laugh at me for saying it, that I wasn't in full control of my body, like the way you wobble on a bike you haven't ridden in years. The dreams and the rash were the worst of it, though. a week afterward, I got a huge patchy rash going up along my chest and my neck with these little

pimple things all over it. I'd soak myself in a damn gallon of that aloe vera junk, just to numb it, and then I'd pass out to these. I called them dreams, but they were a hell of a lot more vivid. I'd be standing on the balcony of this enormous, and I mean it was a gigantic tower, far above this purple ocean, a vast, dark ocean for miles and miles. And I'm back in that big, heavy alien body with all the eye stalks and the leathery flesh. Sometimes there were others with me. Sometimes I'm alone. And sometimes there were...

They looked like bats, but their heads were like dog-shaped. No, no, like I said, I only took it once. You know me. Anything stronger than the stuff rod grows is more than a match for me. Besides, after the dreams and the rash went away, I wanted to try and steer clear from it. But Darrell and Scummy Pete, man, they loved it. You should have heard the things they were saying to me about what they saw, what they felt.

Daryl told me that he lived a some kind of jellyfish thing in an underwater city for over 100 years. And Scummy Pete came into work the very next day, saying that he was some kind of crawling crocodile monkey man in a city of giant glass pyramids. The way they were talking, you'd think they had some kind of cosmic revelation. Yeah, that was exactly my thought. Everyone gets weird highs all the time, sure. But after that day, Daryl and Pete were different. They seemed, I don't know, off all the time.

Like they were walking around on autopilot, I guess. You could tell they weren't exactly all there, too, since they started getting this weird, slow walk to them wherever they went. I'd be at work frying something on the grill, and Pete would be in the back, just sort of staring off into space. space with this weird, empty look in his eyes. One time I caught Daryl sitting behind the wheel of his van, gunning the engine over and over, while he stared dead ahead at nothing. He didn't

even realize he wasn't going anywhere until I asked him what the hell he was doing. But the weirdest part about them afterwards was that they started to change. I mean, it wasn't noticeable at first, though I think the more stardust they did, the worse it got. The spacing out was one thing. Since anyone who's ever hit it as hard as us would probably lose a few brain cells here and there along the way. But I'm talking there were physical changes too, around their faces, their bodies. Remember when I said I had that bad rash for a few days after I took Stardust? They started getting that too, though it was even worse than what I had. Daryl came into work one day, and I remember he was dressed in real heavy clothes, jeans, coat, two oversized shirts,

like he was about to go into a blizzard. This was in early July in California, mind you. So it was 82 at the lowest. He staggered in, sweating and panting, and his face was a deep bloody red. That rash had spread out across his entire face. And you could tell that he had been scratching the bejesus out of it, since there were these huge patches where the skin had been practically clawed off.

He worked all day in that outfit. To the point, he began throwing up with how hot he was. I told Daryl to take the damn stuff off, but he just kept saying that he had to wear it, or else he'd get in trouble. I know what he meant by the latter. I'm getting to that part. A few years ago, we decided to launch No Sleep Coffee. We already had the audience and the concept, but we needed an easy way for people to purchase our products. That's why we went with Shopify. What surprised me the most was how straightforward it was to create the storefront and list our items. We got our coffee online in no time and could focus on what we love,

dropping new blends, expanding the brand, and engaging with our customers. And when a customer is ready to buy, the checkout process makes all the difference. Shopify's checkout is super seamless, and returning buyers can have their details saved for quick and effortless repeat orders. For us, that translated to spending less time stressing over the site and more time growing the business and connecting with even more customers. With Shopify, nothing stands between your ideas, and a real business.

So go make it one. Start your free trial at Shopify.com slash DNS. Start your free trial at Shopify.com slash DNS. You know, a lot of us put effort into our health. We try to eat well, stay active, take supplements, and be productive. But if you're still waking up exhausted, even after seven or eight hours in bed, the missing piece may not be your effort. It could be your sleep quality.

Poor sleep can affect your focus, patients, energy, and daily performance, and sometimes you're not even the first person to notice. Maybe your partner has complained about your snoring or mentioned changes in your breathing while you sleep. Sleep doctor helps take the guesswork out of what's happening overnight. Their clinical grade home sleep study is completed in your own bed for just one night, so you don't have to spend the night hooked up to wires in a sleep lab. You'll get clear insights into what may be causing your fatigue, along with practical next steps. Sleep Doctor accepts most insurance and some patients may pay as little as zero dollars down. Visit SleepDoctor.com and take the first step toward waking up rested and ready.

Again, that's sleepdoctor.com. Both of them started hanging out with these, I don't know what you'd call them, but they were just weird. They were these shaggy, dirt-looking people, men and women, who looked like they just crawled out of a gutter. Real secretive, too. Because they always showed up in groups of two or three, and were constantly whispering to each other. All they took was Stardust. They never drank or smoked or took anything else. They religiously took Stardust.

They were performative about it, you know? They treated the whole thing like a ceremony. A few of them would get wrecked on Stardust, while the rest stood around chanting and talking about... Moving on to their true lives. Yeah, like I told you, friggin' weirdos. But Daryl and Pete liked them. They wouldn't go anywhere without having a few of those guys escort them. We'd be at work, and two of them, dressed in these gaudy, tie-dye robes,

would show up all frazzled and glass-eyed to sit at the counter and whisper stuff to Pete. We could be at Daryl's house, and a gaggle of them would be there, snorting crushed, stardust tablets, and shouting gibberish on the couch. To be honest, I could have gotten over all of that, as I'm no saint myself to be free. If it wasn't for what they were putting inside Daryl's head, maybe he took so much of that Stardust stuff, he fried part of his brain. Maybe he thought one of the chicks in the group was cute in that dirty ragamuff and kitten sort of way, and he wanted to get with her.

I don't know. But ever since he started hanging out with those guys, all he'd talk about was going home. That Stardust had shown him that he was meant to be living as a, a child of blessed Galeothor in the undersea kingdom of Karela, whatever the hell that meant, and not wasting away here with the rest of humanity. He stopped showing up to work and became more withdrawn, hiding out in his apartment all day and doing stardust with that gaggle of Manson family rejects. I was pretty much the only person still concerned for Daryl, considering Pete spent most of his time getting high with them anyway. So, flash forward into the start of August.

right. I'm in my apartment, getting ready to get some dinner, when Darrell calls me up on the house phone. I haven't heard from him in like two and a half weeks since he quit showing up to work. He starts telling me that he's leaving soon, and he wants to see me before he goes. I ask him where he's going, and all he says to me in this stupid stoned voice is that he's going. He says that if I want to see him, just meet him at the apartment that night. Darrell sounded out of it, way more stoned than I have ever heard him. and it sounded like a party was going on in the background. Of course I went.

I thought maybe he was talking about moving back home to Colorado or something, so I wanted to see him at least one more time. I hopped on a bus over to Daryl's place, and I got there around eight. By the time I got there, the whole place was crammed full of those stardust freaks. I'd say about 30 or 40 of them, all of them unwashed as could be, and stoned, so hard, they were walking around shouting and hollering at the wallering, If I wasn't so used to smelling scummy peat on a near daily basis, the body odor in that room would have made me vomit. I find Daryl in the bedroom, where he's surrounded by all these homely-looking runaway chicks.

They're petting him, covering him with blankets and feeding him tabs of stardust. I mean, actually feeding him. Putting the tablets in his mouth and washing it down with this awful-smelling tea. Dutura, I think. I ask him what the hell is going on, you know? If he's all right or if he's sick or something, he barely even registers that I'm even there for the first few seconds until he just starts rambling at me. I couldn't even make out half the stuff he was saying.

He was so messed up. Most of it was groans and this insane mumbling about going home. Every time Daryl talked, he'd be moving and squirming around in bed. Underneath all of those blankets they covered him with, I could make out his stomach and legs jerking and twisting, like something inside him was trying to. to crawl free. The girls that were there with him just kept feeding him more stardust and washing his head with a sponge, holding him down to the bed. I told one of them to leave him alone and let him get up for some air, but Darrell just waved me off. He said that he was thankful I was there one last

time, and he wished I could have come with him. What? Oh, sorry, sorry. I'm not trying to ramble here. It's just, God, I know I tell some pretty outlandish bull to you sometimes, but I wish I was making this up. That night was the only time in my life that I felt genuine terror. No matter what I smoke, I can still see Daryl as clear as day. I was just about to leave when I heard this screaming, this god-awful screaming coming from Daryl's room. All of those burned-out hippie freaks heard it too, and they all started running over to see what the matter was. It was me, and say, 30 people pushing ourselves through this narrow doorway to get into the room, and I managed to push myself through the crowd until I can see right above the bed.

There was Darrell, lying almost completely naked on the bed. He's spasming back and forth, making these loud, horrible moans while the hippie girls hold him down. Right around his stomach and chest, which were this bloody, pus-ridden red from that bad rash, there were these huge tumors. Big festering tumors, the size of baseballs, growing out from his skin and covered in these shimmering little crystals, orange, neon orange, like the stardust tabs. I almost thought his skin was boiling off with how many there were. But there were something else too. At first, it looked

like a bubble, like the top of a big clear bubble growing right in the center of his chest. Everyone was shouting and singing, laughing even, as Darrell lay there, shaking and moaning. Like it was some kind of joke. The closer I got, I noticed the bubble was moving, squirming and pushing, as if it were alive, sliding up through his raw, tumor-covered. skin and, oh God, it was actually ripping through it. A long, spiky tentacle lifted up from the middle of it, all squirming and pulsing, and it started to slide into Daryl's mouth. It was pushing apart his whole chest, growing right underneath the skin of his ribs and his stomach was starting to swell up like he was pregnant. I can close my eyes and still see those wiggling little

tadpole things floating around in this stomach cavity and the way they glowed so bright that you could make out the organs being squished and moved around. I ran. I just took off and ran. Maybe I was a coward, or maybe I convinced myself I was going to get help. I don't know. I pushed myself through the crowd, just as there was this loud, ripping sound, and everyone started cheering and screaming. I'm not sure what it was, but I knew Daryl was dead. After that, I did try to get help, for whatever that was worth. I found a pay phone a few blocks over and called the cops. But by the time anyone came, I don't know what there was left to do. I don't think there was anything left of Darrell, aside from what they were able to carry out on a stretcher, I guess. Maybe they mentioned

something about it in the paper, though I doubt they knew what they were really looking at. By then, there were rumors of other cases, sure, but rumors were all they were. A guy in a motel, some kid found dead near the border. Stories like that. I wouldn't be surprised if they arrested a few of those people they were hanging out with, though. If anything ever came of it, I doubt it. Scummy Pete? The last I ever heard of him was the day before I moved down here. I was packing my stuff out of that rat hole apartment, and I bumped into him moving boxes out on the curb. I'm telling you, I wouldn't have even recognized him by that point if it wasn't for the scummy smell. He was hanging out with a few of those freaking creeps that were around when Daryl died.

He must have been so strung out on Stardust that he didn't even recognize me at first. I don't think he even remembered who I was. That's how badly he was messed up. His face was covered in these big, weepy, sore-looking things, and his skin? All those little crystals on his cheeks and nose? No. I don't know whatever happened to him. He's probably dead, I'd imagine.

Not just from the Stardust stuff, but he lived a real rough lifestyle. Star Dust? Like I told you, they started cracking down on it in the late 80s, but quietly. You didn't see some big news special about it or anything. like that. It was more like people stopped being able to find it. One day, even the sketchiest dealers couldn't give you so much as a crumb. Every so often, though, there's a rumor that goes around that some people still sell it. Maybe even make it. Down near the border towns where the guards don't bother to look much. I heard it's even made under a brand new name. Ah, but listen

to me, rambling on like a goddamn junkie with nowhere to be. Ha! Anyway, You said you had something new you wanted me to try, didn't you? Thanks for tuning in. If you enjoyed the story, be sure to follow or subscribe and share the show with a fellow horror fan. I'll see you in the next one.