I was trying to play my drums when the acid kicked in. Or maybe it wasn't acid, maybe they actually were mushrooms, but it was never like this before. There was always a mellow ramp, but now I couldn't count.

Suddenly, I couldn't keep time. The drums were expanding and contracting, one minute my top tom drum was twenty-four inches around, then it was five. And then it was 2-D. Where was I supposed to hit this thing? And how long was this song anyway? I mean, this is the shortest song we have, and its been going on for ten minutes now. And we're still in the first verse.

An hour later, we finished the song, and I pulled myself off the throne.

"I can't do it, I gotta stop," I said to my bandmates. We were all starting to mutter to ourselves. Pointing at things the others couldn't focus on. I grabbed another beer. Maybe it was the same one. Luckily, it was open. It was ready for me to drink. If I could just figure out how to get that done.

A little while later--probably a few days later, I guess. The sun had set, then come back up again, then set and then it hopped around and grinned at me before disappearing entirely. I was gonna tell it to make up its fucking mind, but it had no ears. Just like everyone else, it wasn't listening to me either.

The cat next to me yawned and then the Dr. started speaking at me through the whiskers.

"You see, it really did happen. The fuckers never get it until they do. Just sit there for a while, you'll figure it out. And, for christ's sake, don't answer the door!"

The next day I got up from the couch and went to find my bandmates. We'd made a mess of things. The wife was gonna be home soon. Not my wife, but the wife. There's always one of those lurking around. She wouldn't understand, not in our condition. If she walked in on this, hell, we'd have to actually think of some kind of straight answer. This shit had been going on for days!

I walked through the middle room, which was about twenty degrees cooler than the rest of the house. I'd created a mess a few days earlier when I'd passed through to get to the living room. The mess was pretty much still there, but my guitarist had tried to pick things up. So the mess was actually bigger than before. It was multiplying. If I stayed much longer, it would overtake me, and I'd never be found. This had to be delicate.

I made it back to the garage after long negotiations with the piles of crap on the floor. Our instruments were still set up, but they'd been unplugged days before. My bandmates were staring at each other. Or staring at their hands. I couldn't tell. They looked stuck in a loop.

"I found out," I said, waving at them, trying to get their attention.

There was no answer, but they kind of had a look of anticipation on their face. Like I'd say something more. But what? What was I going to say? I didn't have a plan--hell, all the plans went out the window when we gobbled down those foul vegetables.

Suddenly, I was on the floor, staring at all of the electrical equipment we had strung up and connected and buzzed. Could they hear the buzzing? Wasn't it just the loudest thing in the world? Electricity was everywhere, and if I wasn't careful--hell, I wasn't careful! Look at this! How had we gotten in this mess? And how to get out? It wasn't going to stop. It'd been days. And nights and then days and nights again.

The clock was hard to read. It was like those alien symbols in every science fiction movie. It probably spelled out "male bathroom," but I couldn't tell. I didn't read alien very well.

And then the cat started talking again. The Dr. was tap tapping my head again.

"Tell them. You know. Just let them know. They'll understand. They're just like you--I'm just a fucking cat."

I started laughing. Then they started laughing. I needed another beer. This was too much for one head.

I saw a pad of paper and tried to write down my message. The writing disappeared as I wrote it. Completely off the page. Shit! This wasn't going to work at all! I'd have to say it out loud. But I couldn't remember how to speak.

And then it was really simple. I just had to open my mouth.

"The Dr.," I said. "He's dead. Gone. Blown sky high by his own hand."

"Yeah," said one of my bandmates. "We were trying to figure out how to tell you, but you were stuck somewhere. The cat let us in on it a few days ago."

Matt Worley is a little bummed at the suicide of Dr. Hunter S. Thompson, but he's passed on into legend now. And that's what he always wanted.