“Then what? Another lice burger for the stack? This has to end somewhere. Who’s the fuckwrench that threw up on the mushrooms? Once this DMT comes down, you’re gonna be wanting something to smooth out the ride. Mushrooms. Five cents a quarter pound.”
    “Whats in those mushrooms? Tri-ethyl di-formaldehyde?”
    “These ones will make you feel like a child. Everything will be bright and you’ll be anxious with excitement.”
    “I’ll take two pounds,” ordered Barzag.
    “Alright. (puff) We’ve got a deal on cactus if you’re interested in mescaline?”
    “Depends.”
    “This ain’t you’re friendly neighborhood mescaline dealer. This shit will tear your nuts clean off and serve them to you with a gorilla skatblast chaser. You ain’t ready for this stuff.”
    “Fuck that. Give me four cactuses. How much mescaline is that?”
    “Four. That’s probably enough to stun a water buffalo. You’ll be tearin your brain apart without a breather or a break for roughly two hours. Though you can still go back to the DMT anytime you choose.”
    “I’m in. Give me the works,” said Queefblade. A smorgasborg of triptamines injected into his medulla couldn’t have given him more pleasure than his gorilla suit made of 16th century merkins. He pulled on the gorilla suit and prepared his lungs for a fogblast of Humbolt’s meanest.
    

      Gratz meef,
            Reverend Speefnarkle