William S. Burroughs, Timothy Leary, and Hunter S. Thompson sat at a table in my kitchen. The table was covered in a glowing white tablecloth. I looked over at them from the wild embrace I was involved in. Electric colors entwined with my fingers and toes, making me mumble with joy.
Mozart’s unwritten symphonies trickled out of my pores, down my face. They pooled on the floor, evolving into Beat Poetry and angry Rap.
“Poor bastard,” Mr. Burroughs commented. “He’s being tarted up by an agent from Interzone and he doesn’t even know it. Got any cocaine?”
“No. No. That’s nothing to do with Interzone, man.” Timothy Leary cooed, fading in and out of existence in the middle chair. “That’s deep love with a Kachina.”
“Fuck both of you. I’m a journalist, goddamn it. He’s being ass raped by Mothra. Can’t you see?” Thompson passed a cookie jar down the table to William Burroughs. “Don’t snort it all. Leave some for the starving junkies in Portland. Fuck. That’s nasty shit.”
An eternity later, dressed as Olympic event judges, they gave me my scores.
“The roach-powder sniffing judge gives it a 3. My asshole gives it a 4.” Burroughs cackled, dried up and blew away like dust.
“The deeper image shook me up, and it was all yellow. I’ll give it a squiggle that looks like a 3.” Timothy Leary smiled and faded away like the Cheshire Cat.
“Jesus Happy Christ! I’m calling my Lawyer, you creeping fucktards. Where’s the cheese? You promised me cheese. All I get here is buttsex and giant bats. Five, you stinky fucker! Five. That’s all. Five! Johnny Depp plays with my clothes.”
Dr. Thompson leaned back, lit up a spliff, and put his feet up on the brilliant table.
“Anybody got a Smith Corona? I’ve gotta write before the shmuck wakes up. I’m a Doctor of Journalism! Midget bitch! Suck my cock. Mothra. Jesus.”
Somewhere in the brilliant white and shocking maze of atonal colors, a porn star got his wings. A technicolor blob of spooge blew Hunter S. Thompson’s head off, launching it into the cosmos.
In the deep dark of the universe, a spark flared: the birth of a new galaxy. A tiny whisper could be heard, all the way back in Baltimore.
“Jesus Christ. I’m Tetsuo. Fucking bats.”