Intravenous PCP

Next, they are driving. Terry is driving. Terry thinks Terry is driving. Ha! Up the slippery slope. Haha! The car seems really loud, but so do the trees. They bounce, wheels spinning. Thundering, they jump rut to rut up the incline, then in a last gasp, like a stepped on bar of soap, are birthed onto the blacktop.

The stars vibrate in the cool night sky. The screwy dash-dash-dash of the white line screams by at a crawl. A cacophony of metal and absurdity. The cries of metal and blacktop. After a minute or an hour, "Stop the fucking car." It's Rico, Terry realizes. Looking around, he sees everybody in the car, sporting cosmic fucking grins of hollow stupor. And they're all vibrating, no, buzzing. Terry grinds the car to the shoulder of the road, in a slow-motion netherworld, and the rest of them bail from the car. They are soon out behind the car, wrestling with a large smoking lizard in the middle of the road. Whoa!

They are back on the road, and the car is insanely fucking loud now, but Terry is trying to figure out how to control the sociopathic metal ghost, buzzing through the night. “I must be doing ninety, only I can't read the speeedo-meter.” Thinks Terry. Rico says "Jesus - speed up man, you're doing fifteen fucking miles an hour. We’re gonna get fucking busted.” Terry doesn’t know if he should believe the lying conniving bastard, his buzzing best friend or not.

Terry wonders aloud about the lizard back in the road, wonders how fast he’s going. What was that fucking lizard? What was the reptile smoking, for god’s sake? "Muffler" says Rico. “Oh”