by Niklas Göransson

By popular request, we delve deeper into the sordid origins of Sweden’s Ofdrykkja. Almost a decade after conquering addiction and time served in prison, Drabbad reflects upon his own harrowing of hell.

 

DRABBAD: I first met Bödeln back in 2009 when he and I were locked up together. Not in prison, but an institution for heavy drug users: ‘LVM’ in Swedish. I was sent there following a suicide attempt that left me clinically dead for four minutes. The facility is named Älvgården, and it’s located in Hedemora, Dalarna. Initially, they shipped me off to Frösön, but it was soon closed down due to – among other things – several patients overdosing.

In March 2009, the owners of Frösö behandlingshem announced that the treatment centre was closing its doors. This came in the wake of several incidents, such as drug sales within the clinic, a lethal heroin overdose, as well as a nurse stealing prescription meds and helping two patients escape.

DRABBAD: Bödeln arrived shortly after me, and we struck up a friendship. He was a remarkably big man: quite tall, with an athletic build. Clearly, he’d been lifting weights and working out extensively throughout his life. His hands were gigantic. I recall Pessimisten asking him, ‘How do you even jerk off with those things?’ the first time they met.

 

This meeting between two deeply troubled individuals in their late twenties, both with black metal backgrounds, profoundly impacted both men’s lives. Much of this was explored in the OFDRYKKJA interview in Bardo Methodology #6.

DRABBAD: I think Bödeln was sent to Älvgården after wrecking his car while driving intoxicated or something along those lines. We spent a lot of time together there, and he always seemed calm and friendly. I remember us playing The Elder Scrolls: Oblivion to pass the time. Bödeln told me he could get pretty violent, though I never saw any such tendencies then. Like most people, he was very different sober to when drunk or on drugs.

The two maintained contact after getting out but lived too far apart to catch up in person. Drabbad is from Västerås, roughly one hundred kilometres northwest of Stockholm, while Bödeln resided in Hudiksvall, some 270 kilometres further north. Following months of correspondence, Drabbad made the journey to visit. At that time, Bödeln was living in a secluded cabin with just one neighbour.

DRABBAD: I imagine that neighbour had witnessed his share of oddities. Bödeln mentioned the occasion he went over, opened the front door, and stepped inside. The entire family was at the dining table, just staring at him. He walked right past them and up to the second floor, silent the entire time. After a while, he heard his neighbour shout, ‘Hey! Why don’t you come down and have some tacos with us?’ So, he went downstairs and joined the family for dinner.

 

Bödeln and Drabbad had discussed their plans over the phone, both of them resolving to stay sober. The intention was to spend most of their time playing video games, as they had at Älvgården.

DRABBAD: When he met me at the station, I’d already been popping pills and drinking a few lagers on the train. We then visited a friend of Bödeln’s and smoked some weed. How we ended up back in his cabin, I don’t quite remember. I’d brought a lot of Xanax with me, among other prescribed drugs. Naturally, Bödeln wanted in on it. But right from the start, I told him I couldn’t just hand out my precious meds, for various reasons. The main one was my heavy dependence on them; running out would likely lead to a state of verbal catatonia.

This condition was discussed in the OFDRYKKJA feature with Pessimisten, who experienced it first-hand on several occasions.

DRABBAD: Once Bödeln started drinking, he showed little to no understanding of my predicament. And we were boozing for most of my stay. On the first evening, we went downtown, and it didn’t take long for us to end up in a street fight. I can’t remember how it began, but Bödeln got someone in a bear grip – arms wrapped tight – and then ran straight into a lamp pole. I remember the metallic clonk as the guy’s head hit it. I pulled out one of those legal self-defence sprays and started waving it around.

The police arrived almost immediately; Bödeln and Drabbad were arrested and thrown into the drunk tank.

DRABBAD: Since nothing serious happened and no one was badly hurt, they let us go the next day. Talking with the cops while being released, I noted that Bödeln was well-known to local law enforcement. I met up with him outside the police station, and our first order of business was to head to a nearby pub and resume drinking.

So, mere hours after being let out, the two were back in the same state that landed them in jail the previous evening.

DRABBAD: My next memory is of standing outside a cabin, peeping through the window, and walking around on the frosty lawn. I didn’t knock; I just stood there in the numbing cold for hours. I was under the impression that this was Bödeln’s place and wondered when he’d return. Or was he already inside – and if so, why hadn’t he let me in? Suddenly, a police car pulled up. A neighbour had called them, and it quickly became clear I had the wrong house. ‘Didn’t we release you from jail earlier today?’ one cop asked. ‘Yeah, but we got drunk again,’ I replied.

When the constables demanded to know what was going on, Drabbad explained that he’d probably slipped into some kind of psychosis due to not taking his medication.

DRABBAD: I said, ‘I have no idea where I am or how I got here,’ and asked if they knew where my comrade lived. The cops deliberated for a while before offering me a lift. It was quite a drive, so I must have wandered far off. We knocked, but no one answered at first. After a few minutes, a wild-eyed Bödeln flung the door open. He looked… a bit unhinged, to say the least. He’d been eating quark, so his mouth, lips, and cheeks were dotted with white.

Quark is a dairy product similar to cottage cheese – it’s commonly used by weightlifters on a budget as a cheap source of protein.

DRABBAD: One of the cops said something along the lines of ‘Good evening, we found your friend a few kilometres from here.’ Bödeln didn’t so much as glance at them. He stared straight at me and said, ‘Have you taken your medication?’ to which I responded, ‘No.’ ‘Then you better get in here, on the double!’ He grabbed my jacket and pulled me inside, then slammed the door in their surprised faces.

As the police car drove off, the pair proceeded to get even more wasted by consuming Drabbad’s remaining supply of Xanax.

DRABBAD: After an unknown amount of time had passed, Bödeln began raving about some people who might be coming over. Suddenly, he stood up and shouted, ‘Prepare to defend yourself!’ and then ran out of the cabin. Shortly after, he returned inside with a huge axe and handed it to me. Bödeln armed himself with two steak knives and said, ‘I’m not taking any chances. If something happens, I’ll slit the throat of the first person and then go straight for the next guy.’ Meanwhile, I sat there in some sort of bewildered delirium. ‘Who did you say was coming over?’

The abrupt discontinuation of benzodiazepines can lead to severe withdrawal symptoms, including profound alterations in mental state and, potentially, an inability to speak. Drabbad’s depleted stash precipitated the aforementioned catatonic state, which lasted for the remainder of his stay.

DRABBAD: Bödeln and his father had to drive me to the psych ward for an evaluation. I just sat there in total silence as the doctor kept asking me questions. I didn’t say a word to her during the entire meeting.

 

A few months later, in July 2010, Bödeln visited Drabbad at his home in Västerås – a joyous reunion resulting in both men first hospitalised and then locked up. As Drabbad so eloquently put it in our first conversation: ‘What ever has the world come to when two friends can’t pop some pills, drink a few beers, and re-enact a couple of scenes from the Texas Chainsaw Massacre in the privacy of their own home?’

While incarcerated, Drabbad started corresponding with Pessimisten; a few months later, they formed OFDRYKKJA. Drabbad invited an old friend, The Associate, to join the project. Bödeln was brought in on drums. Their debut album, “A Life Worth Losing”, was released on cassette by Temple of Death Productions in April 2014.

The last time Drabbad and Bödeln saw each other in person was later that year. After Drabbad had been shot by police – an incident also discussed in Bardo Methodology #6 – and then put on trial, Bödeln showed up to voice his support.

DRABBAD: I later heard that Bödeln had attempted to smuggle a three-litre box of wine into the courtroom. A high-profile case was being heard concurrently with mine, so security was unusually tight. Long story short: he didn’t get to bring his wine. The judge even threatened to have him removed a few times as he kept booing loudly and taking photos of people with his phone.

 

While preparing for this follow-up interview, I delved into Drabbad’s post history on Flashback Forum. Initially a counterculture fanzine, Flashback has evolved into one of Sweden’s most trafficked websites, with a message board that covers a gamut of subjects – from gardening tips, pet care, and cryptocurrencies to radical politics and drug use.

Over a decade back, Drabbad used the forum almost like a diary, detailing his many escapades. His talent for storytelling shines through the brutally candid posts. The thread about his self-mutilation adventure with Bödeln, for instance, has achieved cult status in the ‘Trip reports’ subforum. Some of these stories are, quite frankly, too amusing not to document for non-Swedish OFDRYKKJA enthusiasts.

Now, I doubt anyone would’ve believed the madness recounted in our previous conversation if not for existing police and hospital records confirming essentially everything. Many of the following anecdotes are likewise verifiable by photos, home videos, as well as law enforcement and healthcare documentation. Others by mutual acquaintances.

We begin with the epic saga of the ‘two thousand green roofies’. So, to place ourselves in the heat of the moment: after deliberating how to make quick money, Drabbad and two of his cohorts decided to pool their resources and procure a large batch of Rohypnol, a benzodiazepine primarily used to treat insomnia. Most readers will already know where this is headed, but I’m reasonably sure the initial intention was to sell them for a profit.

DRABBAD: That was the original plan, yes. But to be clear, this wasn’t my operation. I basically just tagged along for the ride, and they kept stuffing me full of roofies until I resembled a constipated Thanksgiving turkey. However, we did use my mom’s flat as some kind of headquarters. She had gone abroad on holiday, which meant I had the place to myself for two weeks.

As we are about to find out, this was a grave error in judgement – one which would never be repeated.

DRABBAD: I vividly recall how the whole thing began: one of my friends returned to the flat carrying a huge bag of oval green Rohypnol tablets marked ‘542’. They have a green coating with blue ink on the inside; this is to prevent people from getting drugged at clubs by someone slipping a few of these puppies into their drink.

This has been known to happen with such frequency that it earned Rohypnol the reputation of a ‘date rape’ drug.

DRABBAD: My friend said, ‘Okay, here’s the plan: we start by taking fourteen of these each, just to get things rolling.’ He handed me a fistful of roofies. I thought, ‘It’s go-time!’ and downed them all at once. About fifteen minutes later, he gave me four more. From this point, my memory of the next two weeks gets pretty hazy. What I’m absolutely sure of is that very few of those roofies were actually sold.

Considering Rohypnol’s strong redosing urge and inhibition-dissolving qualities combined with short-term memory loss, I suspect that this might not be something one would want unlimited access to.

DRABBAD: We were taking them by the hundreds – swallowing the pills or crushing them to smoke the powder with weed. We were trapped in a retarded cycle, our one remaining brain cell drunk and feeling terrible. My girlfriend later told me we kept repeating the same conversations, fixated on roofies – debating the best way to take them. ‘Is it more effective to smoke them in a pipe? Or to blaze them on tin foil? Let’s find out!’ And so on, over and over.

 

After a few days, the young entrepreneurs realised that their stock was dwindling at a higher pace than profits were coming in. To inject more liquidity into the operation, they started stealing bicycles and hauling them back to the apartment.

DRABBAD: We removed the locks using a drill, and soon the floor was littered with tiny metal fragments that we didn’t bother cleaning up. They were razor sharp, cutting our feet as we walked around in socks. Eventually, we got too lazy to venture beyond my block and just began collecting the neighbours’ bikes. Every single one. We had a contact, a lady we referred to as ‘Cykelkärringen’.

The boys had once sold Cykelkärringen – ‘The Bicycle Crone’ – an obviously stolen bike via an ad in the local paper. It turned out she was keen to buy more.

DRABBAD: I distinctly remember her asking the others if there was any chance that they could do business without my involvement. Apparently, I’d called her numerous times, outright screaming into the phone. Then, the first time we met, I marched right up to her and her husband in much the same manner. They were standing by their car, trying not to attract attention… and here I come, shouting, ‘Hey! Are you the ones after stolen bikes?’ They looked like they’d walked off the set of Downton Abbey – not ‘gangsta’ by any stretch of the imagination.

As IQ levels continued to plummet, the trio’s ideas for bringing in more funds grew worse by the minute.

DRABBAD: Cykelkärringen was fed up with us, so I just started asking everyone I met if they wanted to buy a stolen bike. I even tried at the local pizzeria; the owner told me to never return. That’s when a new plan hatched in my mind. Not far from my mom’s, there was this narrow pathway where I’d seen mopeds drive by.

The walking path was bordered by woods on both sides, perfect for staying out of sight – especially at night.

DRABBAD: We decided to bring this African cudgel my mother owned and just lie in wait for a passerby. The plan was to jump out as they drove past, knock the unsuspecting rider to the ground, and then we’d have ourselves a moped. And if we were lucky, a wallet and a phone too. The notion that someone might get seriously hurt didn’t cross our minds. Once darkness fell, all three of us went down to the road and stood there for a good long while.

By the time a moped finally appeared, they’d forgotten all about their mission and resorted to arguing about something – presumably the optimum method for Rohypnol ingestion.

DRABBAD: The moped whizzed past us before anyone could react. I don’t remember this, but my friend later recounted how I grabbed the cudgel and took up pursuit by foot, running and screaming. That moped must’ve been going about sixty kilometres per hour – yet there I was, convinced I could catch it.

Following the botched moped robbery, a local man known for his amphetamine habits came walking along the pathway.

DRABBAD: I went straight up to him, pitching some ‘first-rate business’ opportunity, so I urgently needed contact details for his best drug dealers. I then pulled out a scrapbook and a pencil, ready to take notes. He just stood there in silence, looking at me.

 

Their stash had now shrunk significantly. With all other options exhausted, Drabbad turned to his father for a loan.

DRABBAD: We weren’t even swallowing the pills anymore; we just chewed them like candy. So, my whole mouth had turned blue – I must’ve looked like a complete idiot. I remember standing in the bathroom with a toothbrush for what felt like two hours, just scrubbing my lips and tongue, trying to get it off. When I met my dad, I looked exactly the same. The toothbrush had accomplished nothing. He went, ‘What the fuck have you done now?’ And I’m like, ‘Nah, some guy poured ink in my beer as a joke. You know how it is.’

Unsurprisingly, no loan was granted. With the Rohypnol business grinding to a halt due to dwindling stock, Drabbad was hanging out with his girlfriend and a couple of others, one of whom happened to have some heroin. That day, Drabbad had ‘only’ taken about ten pills – their final remaining inventory – which by his recent standards meant he was practically sober.

DRABBAD: He gave me a little heroin, but it didn’t look like much. So, I asked for more. He complied, but I kept saying, ‘More! I have a massive tolerance. I need more!’ Really stupid, but the thing is, I’d taken several hundred roofies earlier in the week and didn’t grasp how doped up I was.

It bears mentioning here that opiates and benzodiazepines are a terrible mix.

DRABBAD: I injected the heroin and immediately passed out. I remember hearing voices in the far distance. Someone started slapping me, shouting, ‘Wake up!’ I mumbled back, ‘I’m alright, just relax.’ I didn’t want to wake up; it felt so good. As if I was submerged in pure white light, receiving the warmest, most loving embrace of my life. Then I heard a scream, ‘You’re not alright! Your face is blue – you’re overdosing!’

An overdose of opioids can cause respiratory shutdown by suppressing one’s breathing. The bluish colouration is a sign of hypoxia, which means the body is experiencing an acute lack of oxygen.

DRABBAD: When I heard that, I stood up and caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I looked like a cadaver – dark around the eyes, as if wearing corpse-paint, with my lips a deep shade of purple. My girlfriend and her sister were crying, thinking I was about to die. I took one step towards the kitchen, and then everything went black. I heard thumps coming from outside my skull but couldn’t feel a thing. I later realised it was someone trying to wake me up by punching me in the head. The next day, my girlfriend told me they’d been up all night, making sure I breathed by kicking me every minute or so.

 

So, not only did Drabbad’s mother come home to an apartment transformed into a chop shop, but she also found her offspring freshly overdosed, with his mouth tinted in the distinct hue of date-rape blue.

This poor woman appears to have endured a lot. For starters, I’m told this wouldn’t be the last time she’d unwittingly participate in Drabbad’s second-hand bicycle enterprise.

DRABBAD: What can I say? It was an accident. I was on my way home when I happened to spot a bike and thought, ‘Ah, that’ll do!’ The thing is, I should’ve recognised it. I’d been borrowing it for years, so I have no idea how I could’ve forgotten. I used it almost daily for a while. Anyway, I saw it standing there and just decided, ‘This one shall be mine!’ I grabbed the bike, ran down to the basement, and stashed it in my mom’s shed.