We were on the edge of the desert when the drugs took hold. Heard screeching, a loud and terrible cry of thousands of animals I looked outside the window of the 18wheeler we had stolen somewhere outside of Los Angeles and saw the sun blotted out by a hoard of owls, flying after us at a speed damn close to exceeding the 100 miles an hour my associate preferred to drive.
I thought for sure the animals would kill us. Grasp us in talons and devour us like the mice we were. My associate remained calm through the whole ordeal. Confused by me bashing my head on the windshield screaming about those goddamn owls he asked me what was wrong. He hadn't seen the owls. But he would as soon as the drugs caught up with him.
I yelled at him to go faster if we were to escape the owls, and also because we still had over 100 miles to go if we were to make it to my assignment. I'm a journalist. A damn good one. And I had a job to do if I were to avoid explaining how the advance money was already gone.
Along with the chickens that came with the truck, we were hauling enough drugs to supply Charlie Manson's commune for weeks. We had bought cocaine in salt shakers, three bags of pot, 11 hits of acid, uppers, downers, sugarcubes as well as three thirty packs of Busch, a bottle of rum, a half empty bottle of tequila, and a bottle of schnapps. But I was worried about the sugar cubes. There is nothing in this world that is more depraved than a man on a sugar rush. And I knew I would get into that devilish stuff soon enough.
Instead of speeding up, my associate, a 300 pound fiend of a man, swerved the truck over to the side of a road and barely avoids hitting a hitchhiker. If it weren't for the drugs, I would have eaten his face. The boy had a stupid grin on his face, clearly not knowing he was on the wrong side of reality. My associate introduced himself as a Mr. Bird and then me as esteemed journalist Ronny Squire. No clue where he pulled these names from.
We were back on the road and gaining speed when Mr. Bird hurled a Busch can at the hiker's face. And then he knew what a grave mistake he had made by joining us on this long weird trip through the debaucheress pit that was Las Vegas. He immediately reached to jump out of the cab when I turned around and saw the fear in his eyes. Yes, he was mistaken to have joined us, but to jump out now would be even worse. I knew I had to calm the poor fool down.
"I want you to understand that my associate at the wheel is an attorney. He's not some dingbat I found in the back alley of a slum. Sure he's dumpy, but that's no reason to be prejudiced especially in this climate. You're not prejudiced are you?"
The boy frantically shook his head. But I could still see the fear in his eyes. Something else must convince him.
"AND BESIDES YOU FOOL, DON'T YOU KNOW THIS IS OWL COUNTRY?!?"
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LOLSCHACH's Journal: April 20, 2009:
Hurm. Found record of journey cousin took in magazine published in 1970s. Was a depraved deviant lost in the drug trade. Died a couple of years ago. Self inflicted gunshot.
No need to investigate further.
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