I woke up with my knees against the seat

I woke up with my knees against the seat in front of me. My head was splitting, and there was a very bad smell that seemed to overpower me. I could not remember where I was, and

where my friends had gone. I had blacked out after the fifth shot of Patron. I must have passed out in the car. That wet stuff on the seat was my

aborted attempt at a frozen concoction cobbled together with whatever was on sale at 7-Eleven. I stumbled back into the store, groggy, looking for Advil. The clerk yelled "You! You

can't be here! The cops, they said. You... you bad news!" The clerk was furious, he was spitting. I gave him a one-fingered salute and sighed. "Just give me pills and I'll go

back to rehab-I just need this last hit. The clerk looked at me sternly and pulled out his foreign version of a police badge. This country was driving me nuts. I snatched the pills

and took them all at once, before Officer Dickhole could do anything about it. Might as well go to jail trippin' balls, right? Well, I learned the hard way that

pyschedelics in a penal context is not a recipe for life success. I ended up killing three "devils" and was rewarded 20 hard years in an Iowa SuperMax. Fortunately, a technicality

got me out in just 2 months, still soon enough for me to meet Toots, the self-proclaimed "king" at the prison. Toots was on death row, but before I was sprung he made me promise to

I don't know, you can open it. Toots' son opened his package. Inside was a gun and a note. He picked up the gun and shot me in the chest. I guess he wasn't ill-equipped after all.