After taking a moment to absorb this shocking and intangible philosophical abstraction, you try to retrace your steps. What could have caused this? Then it hits you: The rye! You vomit violently. Then it hits you, but in the sense that you come to a realization: The rye!
Taking the pint glass of rye very carefully from your inside coat pocket, you notice the tell-tale of powdered sediment at the bottom. For the fiftieth time that day, you regret not buying a new flask. Before you can regret it for the fifty-first time, you collapse under the weight of the drug, struggling to maintain your grip on reality. Someone has hooked the sun to a dimmer switch and is spinning it wildly.
As you slide into a drug-fueled stupor of hallucination and full-body shakes, the last cogent part of your brain finally recognizes the nasty tang of the pill playing a pick-up game of basketball with your consciousness. It's acrid and thick, the smoke from a trash fire caught in the waxed tips of a bushy mustache.
Jack, you think, that bastard. It was one thing to slip a man a Mickey, but to slip your own writer a Brockway? The drug had been outlawed in all of the good states for years now.
You need to find out what Jack's up to. But first, you need to get these drugs out of your system, or at the very least party hard enough that they don't go to waste. And above all else, you've still got a column to write.
Right now, you're cheekbone-deep in a puddle of sick, and the good news is you're lying on your side, most likely because your legs seem to have swapped brains buddy comedy-style, and they're not quite sure what to make of these strange new leg-bodies.
"Fuck you, legs," you encourage, but to no avail. You, Michael Swaim, who've made a career out of standing in various places, cannot now stand of your own accord. You're filled with the drunken rage and frustration of a thousand whiskey-dicked sophomores.
Luckily, just then, a rainbow-feathered emurangutan appears.
"Are you a drug-induced hallucination?" you ask it.
"No," it says in every language to ever be spoken in the universe, all at once.
The creature scoops you off of the floor with its muscular orangutan arms and places you gently onto its curved emu-esque neck. It sprints forward, into a wormhole of pulsating light, and you wonder idly if rainbow-bird is a good eating meat. "Well," it quacks, picking lice from your hair, "where to?" That's when you notice the strange buttons embedded in its back.
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