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For some reason, I start thinking of the road as the last beacon of hope for myself. A beacon of safety, even.I can't possibly be abducted, not right off of a busy street's sidewalk! I didn't make it to account that I'm not even on the sidewalk yet. In reality, I've stumbled my way closer to the thug's VW Bug. Thugmobile. It's a dinky, pitted 1960s kelly green VW Bug, at that. Jesus, I'm going to be kidnapped, in broad daylight, in probably the most visible vehicle ever. People will see me, this car, and shout, "Punch buggy! No returns!" without ever realizing I need help.

I admire the sheer randomness of this vehicle, as I'm manhandled in to the backseat.  I'm kind of surprised to find myself inside the vehicle, after all, I was so determined to make it to the sidewalk. My life is a history, nay -- a litany of failures and deviations from the self-esteem movement. Having its roots in the 80s, maybe the 60s, I always wonder how the self-esteem movement didn't die with flower power posters. Oh, and those super homosexual shoulder pads, the giant coiffed hair, and the flamboyant-neon clothes. How DID that shit ever happen?

Fuck. Thugs, thugmobile. I'm heading for their lair, I can tell. The belly of the beast. I'm in some serious shit now. I wish that I could make the sequence stay in my head, and help me to logically accept that I need to sober up & escape. My head keeps swimming away with brilliant, random ideas and connections.

"I think we should double-dose him, what do you think?" Travis polls his sidekick compadre.

"Hell yes. He's goin' to need it, in order to be a good playmate. He won't be any fun if he keeps passing out on us." Bill smokes a handmade cigarette, tipping the ash in to a carved-rock ashtray in his lap. I'm sitting in the middle of the backseat, just sitting there, watching my captors banter.

I'm busy marveling at how bright neon signs are really amazing right now -- so accentuated. I used to get this effect from hallucinogens, and now I feel a certain nostalgia. It's likely the Daisies. Maybe this is the end show before I sober up. I've been on shit like.. this way. Before. I'm not sure where my thoughts are anymore. I'm disconnected, thinking of a million memories long gone. My reaction times are down, but I'm sure enjoying the passing-by signs, and their neon trails. The boys up front keep bantering, but whatever they're saying is lost on me now. Oh, they're joking about my endurance and tolerance. What's that about? I'm feeling obliviously giddy, having rediscovered  a dream I had when I was 8: I'm splashing around in a pool full of zombies, and they're all trying to drown me. I end up lighting me, and the pool, on fire with a fart, and we all die. Again. It's strange to remember a dream I had at 8, while not being able to remember my life at 8, at all. Memory is strange, especially on Daisies!

Right now, I'm too blitzed to worry about my predicament. I imagine, airily, that eventually I'll come back to worrying about dying, and concerning myself with the whereabouts of lil' ol' Joe-blowaway. Holy crap! Sweet, sweet fucking A&W. We're passing you now. I would truly, surely go all Stockholm-Syndrome-y for my Guardians of Ill-Will if they would buy me a motherfuckin' burger; and if they topped it with a rootbeer milkshake? Oh, god! What I would not DO. Hell, am I in-eeee-breee-ated enough to claim that I would blow Bill for a burger? Actually. Wait. After some rational thought, I decide no. But, I am close. I had no idea I had the munchies so bad...

Doesn't matter anyway, we passed the damn A&W. When did that happen? Shit. Fucking.. Tulips. Marigolds? No -- Sunflowers! No! Wait.. Daisies. Yes, Daisies. Yeah, right -- fuck. Fuck Daisies, and their shitty high/drunk effect.This is getting too hardcore; I'm too old to be this stoned. Fuck Daisies, fuck them in their pollinated petal-y assholes. Fuck Daisies, and the chocolate-licking banana butt-boys who whip this stuff up.

"'Butthole banana-boys'? What fagfest are you channeling back there?" Bill quizzes, curious and concerned.