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I pounded and pounded on the door, and my sister, Jean, opened it up in near panic. After the expected "Oh my God's" and "What happened to you?" she said we needed to call the police.I thought the same thing for a minute, then I hesitated. Here I was, a good looking girl from out of town, went to a pick-up bar by herself, seen drinking and dancing with these men for several hours, and left voluntarily with them. No last names, no license plate, no witnesses to what they did to me, and apparently no witnesses when they dropped me back off. Not a real good set of facts or circumstances for a Grand Jury to ponder.So, I talked Jean out of calling the cops, and agreed to see her ob/gyn the following morning. He was very nice and understanding, and said that I had been probably been d**gged by PCP, some sort of a****l tranquilizer that has the weird effect of leaving the body completely numb but completely aware. He said that I had some bad abrasions and a few bumps and bruises, especially. There’s a guy sitting on a couch with extremely gelled up black hair and a girl under each arm who takes immediate notice of us. He gets up and walks over to us.“Hey, you can't bring him up here!” he says as he nears.“No, it's cool. He's with me.” Vickie replies calmly.“I told you anyone who comes up here needs special approval from me.”“Oh don't worry, he won't be a problem, I'm just taking him up here for some alone time.”“Fine. But just this once.”I understood now, upstairs was like a special hangout, a party within the party. We walk through the room, over to a wide corridor that must lead to the rest of the floor. A tall, muscular black man is leaning against a corner to this hallway. Vickie walks up to him, with me in tow and starts talking to him, quietly. I overhear something about “number three” and “open”, then we continue down the dim pathway.“You're going to have to be quiet through here,” she says in a whisper. We turn a corner and stop near a biblical painting of angels..
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