It was half past vhldiwks when I walked into the room. A window had been opened to let the weed smoke out and a fan was doing most of the work. Carpeting buckled and flapped as the seeds from a turkey feltch were vacuumed up. It was not the kind of place one would take a first date.
Queefblade had barely changed out of his tuxedo when she appeared in the alcove.
    “A gentleman might ask if I want a drink,” said she.
    “Its safest not to drink before submerging.” I suggested.
    “You can be such a crap scratcher, at times.”
    “Panspectral vision is not to be taken lightly. DMT can an Elf Inspector or a Devil Fiend make. Guide you, shall I, on a safe journey if one behaves," was my reply. "Now if you will come the fuck down here and buckle yourself in.”
    Barzag slinked down the staircase and immersed herself in the saltwater tank. She tightened the harness and eased a fart.
    Queefblade prepared himself in the other tank. When they were both securely fastened, glass tubes descended from the ceiling and heavy smoke drifted out the mouth piece. The psychadelic astronauts let the wind out their nostrils and held their breath.
    “Punch it!” I yelled. The DMT clouds raced into their lungs and tore their brains apart.

      Gratz meef,
            Reverend Speefnarkle