Herman Vogel Must Die

Our friend, Nelson was graduating from the Naval Academy. Herman Vogel and I made the trip to Annapolis to join in the revelry.

The drive up was uneventful, save the Washington Beltway at rush hour. Arriving on the east side of Washington, we celebrated our safe passage. We smoked a joint, our first mistake.

I pulled my Ford into Annapolis, hours before the scheduled rendezvous with Nelson. By now, Herm and I had a screaming case of the munchies. We picked the busiest street in town and drove it, scanning for a meal. Excitedly, Herman points to a restaurant.

"Vietnamese food! Holy shit! I love some damn Vietnamese food. Pull in there Dirty and be quick about it man."

I didn't want Vietnamese food. I was "not of my best mind" and unable to fashion an acceptable argument.

"I don't know, Herm. I mean I am unsure about this here Vietnamese food. You know there was a war?"

"Dirty, you ignorant bastard! We fought Italy and you still eat pizza, you moron. Pull in damn it."

Bereft of any more arguments against Vietnamese food, that was it. Our first mistake had now led to our second.

Herm ordered some sort of god awful fish dish. It tasted like rat shit with nasty noodles. The waitress talked me into cinnamon beef. It was not good; it was fucking appalling, but I ate it anyway. Herm wouldn't stop talking about how delicious the food was. The bastard even called the manager over, complementing the rat-shit fish. Departing the Vietnamese filth food, we meet up with Nelson and the rest of the Navy boys.

That evening my poison was Vodka. I put down an insane quantity of Lemon Drops and Kamikazes. Meanwhile, Herm was putting away enough Whiskey Sours to knock down a Shetland pony. The two of us had committed our final mistake.

By means that no one can remember, we arrived at Nelson's new apartment. I drug myself into the bathroom and collapsed on the floor. I got as far as the toilet itself. But, there was no energy left to pull my head up over the bowel. I lay flat on the ground; my body was in a cold sweat. Then it came.

At that point in my drinking career, my puking experience was impressive. I was, in fact, well known for vomiting. My alcohol induced regurgitating was a point of personal pride. But nothing had prepared me for this.

Vietnamese Cinnamon Beef burns like an unholy mother fucker when it comes back up.

Never had I experienced this kind of pain. The Cinnamon Beef had mixed with the rat-shit fish, bile and vodka. This was pure liquid evil I was dealing with. The right cheek of my face was stuck to the tile floor. The evil vomit gushed onto my skin, including my right eyelid, and up my nose. It burned.

In my agony, only one thought: "Herman Vogel must die!" That rat bastard was the one who picked out the Vietnamese restaurant. In my befuddled mind, I figured he knew this would happen. Herman was responsible for this. He must pay. I passed out in a pool of my own vomit, dreaming of punching one of my best friends in the face.

I awoke to pure hell. Nelson collected clocks. The whole apartment sounded of 30 different clocks going off simultaneously, at noon. It was like the beginning of the Pink Floyd song "Time."

Not really understanding what was happening, I jerked awake and rolled over. Now my head was completely covered in the vile Cinnamon Beef vomit. The smell and burning was so awful, coupled with the clock madness; I began a new hurling session. My life was now hell on earth. My eyes, ears and nose were burning from the liquid evil. The smell and feel in my stomach drove me to puke. My whole body was convulsing from the gagging and hurling. In the background, the horrible clocks chimed away. I was so confused and heaving so violently I could not stop throwing up. So I couldn't wash off the vomit that was driving me to puke more. It was a vicious cycle. There is a merry-go-around in hell like this. And all I could think was "Herman Vogel Must Die."

During these hellish moments, I mustered a Greek hero's strength. I stumbled up off the floor and fell into tub; knocking the shit out of my head in the process. I managed to turn the cold water on. If my situation wasn't bad enough this far, the cold water on my face caused me to scream in between heaves. I lay there, trying desperately not to drown, yet wash myself off. All hope was lost; I was going to die in a bathtub full of my own vomit and cold water.

Without warning the water stopped. Looking up, I saw Herman standing over me. "Here, take this." He shoved a pill in my mouth. Then he turned the water back on so I could get a drink.

That was the last thing I remember before passing out again. But this time it was such wonderful sleep! Oh, it was like laying in a luxurious bed with a heating blanket. I completely forgot I was cold, covered in vomit and lying face down in a bath tub.

"Oh my god! Is he alright? Should we take him to the hospital?" There were several unknown voices above me. Some of the Navy boys and their parents had found me in the tub. They were terrified that I may die at any moment.

"Hell no!" I hear Herm. "He's fine. I gave him a Percocet about an hour ago. Poor fellow, he was really suffering. He just does that sometimes."

"What's wrong with him?" Some stranger asked.

Herm said "I think he's allergic to Vietnamese food."

I managed to speak from the dead. "Herm, if it weren't for your mercy of the percocet, I'd kill you right now."

"Hey y'all." Herm turned to the gathered crowd and grinned. "Watch this! It'll be funnier than hell." He walked over and turned the cold water back on.

I screamed like a little girl. In that physical condition, when the cold water hit me, all I could do was shake.

"Herman Vogel, you mother fucker, you must die!"