The Author's Interactive Experience

[after smoking a joint, the author sits down at his desk to write a story.]

"Hey, open up that window, would ya? I don't want my parents smelling this." A calm yet concerned Phillip said with a soothing grin.

Larry pushed his way out of the black leather beanbag chair and did as commanded. "Why do you smoke in your house if you're so afraid that your parents will find out?"

Not looking up from the joint he was rolling, Phillip replied, "Listen, I'd be more than happy to go smoke outside, but do you see that house right across the way there? Look out through the window, straight ahead. They keep their porch light on all night, and the guy who lives there, he's a fuckin' night owl. He stays up till three or four in the morning watching porn and smoking cigars, and every once in a while I'll catch him walking out into his backyard with nothing but boxers, looking into our backyard. Just looking."

"So what? What does he care if you come outside and have a smoke?" Larry sat back down, moistening his lips in preparation and anticipation.

"He's had it in for me ever since I 'accidentally' chucked dog crap into his yard with our shovel." Phillip picked up some loose weed from the top of his desk, which had fallen out of the papers in his latest roll. Nonchalantly, he pinched it and dropped it back into the pile for another attempt.

"Why in the hell would you do that?" Getting antsy, Larry started chewing on his fingernails.

"I don't know! My parents had me all pissed that I had to do these menial chores, when I was right in the middle of my hockey game. I was playing the sixth game of the Stanley Cup Finals on Playstation when they just turned it off. No warning! Nothing! 'Get out there and pick up that dog shit right now! And then, when you're done with that, you can mow the lawn we told you to do two weeks ago!' So, I was stomping around, and I thought it would be funny to huck it into his yard." Phillip paused, smiled, and turned to his friend, "I didn't know he was sunbathing back there. Shit, that was a helluva shot; right onto his big, fat, white belly. Plop! Stuck to his lathered belly-button hair!" They both laughed hysterically for three minutes, Phillip leaving his unfinished joint on the desk as he fell to the floor.

The unsteady honking of the man beside her coupled with the intermittent thuds coming from the boys upstairs managed to drive the red lines further and further into and around Phillip's mother's eyeballs. Theresa, as her husband Willis has called her since the day they met, knew sleep would be elusive with Philip's friend sleeping over. The steady hum of the fan blowing reasonably cool air around her room, enveloping her ears like a thin nylon mask, could not compensate for the jagged, nerve-pinching sounds from the men in the house.

"Boys will be boys," her mother always used to say, and Theresa always tried to keep that philosophy. Her desire for patience in these unpleasant conditions ultimately led to her troubles with alcohol. At first, Phillip's mishaps at school - picking on fellow second graders with disabilities; getting caught smoking cigarettes on his middle school campus; failure to turn in homework for a month straight in his ninth grade math class - along with Willis's utter indifference in disciplining their child, led to her drinking three or four glasses of wine an evening. Escalated to a bottle. Escalated to mixed drinks. Escalated to straight shots. Escalated to entire fifths of alcohol per night. Almost every morning, she managed to recover . . . until the weekends. Then, she got really out of control. This night, however, was a Wednesday, and that bottle of rum could not put her to sleep.

In one particularly sobering drunken spree, Theresa barged into her son's bedroom, while he was at school, looking for bottles of alcohol to steal. That's when she noticed the incense sticks by his computer. Further rummaging revealed an old, forgotten bowl wrapped inside of a green, decaying baggie. A trip to the attic to retrieve her grandfather's old corncob pipe and she was in business. Not great, but enough to do the job. Willis never went into the attic anyway, so he never caught wind of her actions; and he never went near his wife anymore since she started drinking in full force, so she would not have to worry about being kissed. Ever since that night, she felt like she had something in common with her son. Both of them held addictions that Willis did not. Her son got her into weed again, and she became a regular user - more frequently than ever before vomiting before passing out. However, the fact that Willis still resented her drinking, while knowing nothing of their son's dirty habit, only left her feeling even more bitter. Lack of physical attention was one thing, but total disdain was quite another. Theresa hoped to win her husband over again the only way she knew how - pit him against their son. The way she saw it, winning back her husband's admiration landed higher than bonding with her junkie son.

Theresa had no doubts that Phillip was getting high tonight. If and when the opportunity presented itself, she would be sure to wake up her husband so they could go investigate. Tonight would be the night she would get her husband back. Through the snoring and the humming, Theresa chuckled silently. Sobering quickly, she opened a second bottle of rum in bed and took a long chug.

Finally realizing their volume level, Larry asked, "Oh crap! Are you sure your parents can't hear us? I don't want to get busted before we've even done anything yet."

"Come out here." Phillip opened his door and walked down the hall to the staircase. "Do you hear that?" referring to the snoring coming from his parents' closed bedroom door downstairs. "That's my dad. He's about as heavy of a sleeper as they come. My mom's the one we've got to worry about, but she always turns the fan on high in their room to try and drown him out. As long as we don't, you know, jump up and down or start pounding on the floor or something, she shouldn't wake up. They've been in bed for two hours now." Phillip neglected to mention his mother's alcohol habit, believing her to have long since passed-out. Instead, he let the issue die as they returned to his bedroom.

Phillip never really talked about his parents to anyone unless he had to - and even then, he'd pretty much define them by their careers (lawyer; nurse) and leave it at that. On a personal level, his father was quite the bore, but at least he wasn't around that often. Phillip never saw his parents as being happy together anymore, which made him think that his father could fill a parade route with the number of mistresses he must have been involved with. His mother was just too drunk to ever have a social life outside of work. In truth, she was hardly a nurse at all, working fifteen hours a week, five hours on Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday. This was just her excuse, in Phillip's eyes, to get out of the house and make herself feel that her college education was going to some kind of use. Of course, he never said this to her or anyone else. No one of the three ever really talked to each other except for the usual pleasantries "Hi; how was school; do you have enough money to eat on?" Now that he was in college, phone calls were kept to a monthly basis except in those rare occurrences of family illness (grandfather with diabetes last fall) or good fortune (dad making partner in his firm last January). Every time they did speak, they always tried their best not to overly-criticize or offend anyone else (although, frequent barbs were passed along to each other like a raging case of herpes). They all knew of their tenuous relationship together - but they refused to take any steps to break that fiber-thin bond, until the strain became too much. Then, the explosion would hit and dialogue grew scarce for a few weeks.

On a personal level, though, Phillip was quite ashamed of his mother's weakness. He never brought friends over in the evening, or on weekends. Always, he would sleep over at their houses, even though his was always most desired, filled with big-screen TVs, stereos, computers, videogames. When his parents vacationed, that's when he could run wild at home. Either that, or around 1:00, when his mother had flushed for the final time and crawled into bed on her hands and knees, mouth dripping.

"OK, you're really taking your sweet ass time with that. I'm gonna put Rambo in the DVD player. Maybe by the time the movie ends, you'll be finished with that thing." Larry picked the DVD from the rather large stack next to his bed, knocking over 48 others.

[the author inserts Rambo into his DVD player, occasionally pausing to watch.]

"Hey, asshole! Pick those up! And anyway, do you want it done right? I can make this thing sloppy as hell and you can be picking marijuana particles out of your teeth all night. Just be patient. If you want something to do, you can light some incense. It's over there next to my computer." Phillip continued his meticulous process of rolling and stuffing.

Not knowing what incense looked like, Larry pointed to one, asking, "Is this it?" With the affirmation, he presumed to light it. "This looks like one of those punks they give away at the reservation for the 4th of July."

"No shit, but it will fog the scent way more. My parents always wonder why it smells like strawberries in here. I can't believe how stupid they are; they don't even know what incense is!" Larry decided not to take offense at that remark as he placed it in the holder and brought it over to the desk where Phillip was working.

Larry came from a very sheltered family; he had not even tried a cigarette until he was seventeen - and that was from Phillip's very own pack. His parents didn't smoke, drink, or even swear (at least around their children). Now nineteen and back in his hometown on Spring Break, Larry would try marijuana for the first time, thanks to his good buddy and longtime toker.

Larry and Phillip grew up together in Tacoma, meeting in high school. Larry, the brainier of the two, went to the University of Washington where he lived in the dorms. Phillip, not quite as intelligent, but having parents who had considerably more money, went to USC where he studied Economics. As soon as he got there, he realized how unbearable and restrictive the dorm situation actually was, so he moved into a group house two weeks later. Phillip had been smoking weed since he turned 13 and his uncle passed him a joint while on a camping trip. Later on in that trip, he tried his first beer, but decided a few years later that he enjoyed his feeling on weed more than what he got out of alcohol. Plus, his mother didn't quite set the greatest example for alcoholics. "I've never thrown up from bud. That's why I don't drink anymore. Too easy to get carried away," he always told anyone who asked at parties, at his house, in clubs (which he got into using his fake ID), or just random students he would meet in class on the first days.

After licking the glued edge of the zig zag, Phillip sealed the joint. Then, with a careful eye, he pinched the last bits of weed and sprinkled them inside of the open end, jamming it down with the back of his pen. Larry watched with wonder, then queried, "Why are you doing that?"

"I don't want to waste any. I got to jam it in there so it stays compact. The last thing you want is a loose J." Phillip twisted the end, then handed it over to his friend, still in the beanbag chair. Interrupted from Rambo's amazing escape from the police station, Larry looked at Phillip nervously. "Go ahead, start us off."

"Uhh, I'm not so sure. I don't want to screw it up. I just know I'd do something wrong with it. No. You go first." Larry handed it back, gently, with a pleading look in his eyes.

"Oh come on!" Phillip exclaimed with irritation. "Don't be such a pussy. Just stick it in your mouth and light the other end. There's nothing to it." Phillip handed it back with the lighter and a stern glare. Not wanting to look like a helpless novice, but realizing he was on the verge, Larry wet his lips again. Then, with a surgeon's touch, as lightly as he could, he placed it between his lips. "Hey now! Don't get the tip all wet. I've got to smoke that too, ya know!"

Phillip took a sip of his iced tea, smiling as he watched his friend inhale for the first time. Like a father watching his first-born take his first steps, Phillip admired Larry's courage and determination. Larry sucked like he had seen in the movies, then blew out in a fit of coughing. "Yep, that'll happen the first few times. Get it all out now before your turn comes up again." With those workmanlike words of encouragement, Phillip grabbed the joint and began expertly inhaling, holding for a ten count, then inhaling again. A half minute later, he blew all the smoke into Larry's face and handed it back. The next time, still trying to hold back the coughs, Larry took a considerably less professional puff, salvaging what dignity he could muster.

This went on for a few minutes until, finally, Rambo made it into the woods where he would make his final stand against the authority figures that aimed at bringing him down. Both teenagers slumped back in their respective seats, letting the drug perform its duties on their minds. Finally, after twenty minutes of waiting, Larry asked, "OK, so how long is it supposed to take?"


"To get high. I don't feel anything."

"What?" Phillip turned to his friend, eyes half opened.

"I . . . uh . . . don't feel anything yet . . . I don't think." Larry stood up, looking at himself in the window, feeling his forehead like a sick child.

"Listen, man. Chill out for a while. Just keep watching the movie. You're not going to feel anything that special, you know? It's just weed. It calms you down, that's all. Now, sit down. You're making me feel uncomfortable."

[the author observes a fly, circling around his light in the middle of the room.]

Not hearing his friend's last sentence, Larry exclaimed, "Did you see that? A fly just flew right in here!"

"It's OK, man. It's just a fly. It can't hurt you," Phillip said, eyes not deviating from the television screen.

"I can't! They bug the hell out of me." Larry grabbed a piece of paper lying on the desk and waived frantically at the air. Tiny marijuana bits sprayed Phillip in the face.

"Hey! Cut it out, man," Phillip said slowly, angrily.

The fly buzzed by Larry's ear and he jumped back. "No, I've got to kill it. I can't rest until that little fuck is dead. Damn, man, for a guy with a rich family, couldn't you afford a screen for your window?"

"My parents are about to install the air conditioners for the summer, so they took it out. Are you OK, man? You're looking a little red in the face. I don't think I've ever seen you this mad before. I can see the veins in your forehead."

Larry lost track of the fly for a moment as it buzzed by the window again. "Open up your door, maybe we can get it out of the room." Not waiting for his friend to move out of his seat, Larry instead opened it himself, then rushed out.

"Wait, I don't want you to wake up my parents." Phillip ran after his perturbed friend. He had seen weed change people before. The normally passive, quiet, reserved Larry had succumbed to the drug without even realizing it, becoming aggressive, impulsive, and irritable. Finding Larry on the couch in the living room, Phillip sat down and asked, "What's your problem, anyway? It's just a fly. The worst it can do is land on you."

"No, what if I go to sleep and it crawls into my ear and lays eggs inside of my head? There's no way I could sleep knowing that a fly's nest is lodged in my brain. Besides, that's a huge fly! Did you see the size of that thing? I heard they can spit out some kind of poison, like battery acid or something. What if it got in my eye? I'd be blind!" Larry frantically spun his head in all directions, looking for the fly to reveal itself.

"Man, you are fucking paranoid! I can't believe it's hit you this hard - "

"No! It's not the weed, man! I'm serious here. Fly's have killed people and I just don't need that right now."

"Larry, listen. Flies don't spit acid into your eyes. And, yes, I did see the size of that thing. There's no way it could get inside of your ear without you noticing - "

"Man! Have you seen mice, they can burrow into some pretty small fucking holes. I'm sure flies are the same way." Phillip noticed that Larry had not blinked in quite some time and reminded him of this. "I can't! What if it comes out here and I miss him?"

"Dude, you turned on all the lights in the upstairs, I'm sure you won't miss him. Don't forget, I'm here looking for it too." Phillip put his hand on Larry's shoulder to try to comfort him, but Larry brushed it off. Waiting for just the right moment, Larry closed one eye, then the other. At that moment, he thought he saw the fly emerge from the hall way. Larry jumped off of the couch, tripping over the coffee table, knocking Phillip's mother's copies of Cosmopolitan onto the hardwood floor, falling left cheek-first. While laughing, Phillip said, "Oh my God, are you OK?" Larry composed himself, rubbing his cheek. "Shit, man! You're going to wake up my parents, they're right downstairs. Come on, let's go back to my room."

After cleaning up the mess, the stoned ones returned to Phillip's bedroom in time to observe Rambo's daring escape out of the caverns. The fly had disappeared, but not through the window, as Larry closed that as soon as he saw the fly enter his head-space. Ten minutes later, both forgot about the incident, though Larry had folded up the piece of paper and placed it in his pocket on the way back to the bedroom.

"Willis," a whisper, nothing more. "Willis," slightly louder, into the right ear. A hiccup in the snoring, then smoothed out breathing. "Willis, did you hear that?" Hearing that, Willis closed his mouth, squeezing his eyes shut even tighter. "Willis, I think we should go see what the boys are up to. They sound like they're getting into trouble."

"Mmm-what is it?" Not in the mood for discussion, four hours from a peskier alarm clock beep.

"It sounded like someone fell down in the living room. Maybe Phillip got hurt." Theresa tried her best not to slur her words, but the drunken drawl Willis knew all too well gave her away.

"I'm sure he's fine. He's a big boy. Go back to sleep," then, under his breath, he muttered, "or should I say go to sleep?"

"Hey! I heard that! I'll have you know I'd be happy to go 'to sleep' if it wasn't so God-damned loud in here!" At this, she sat up, crossing her arms, facing him.

"Yeah? Well, whose fault is that? What with the fan going full blast. You'd think all that - " he stopped himself, opening his eyes at the save, but fearing it was too late. A fight would surely begin now. At this late hour, Willis had not the control over his words - brain not at full capacity.

"'All that' what? Alcohol? Is that what you were going to say? booze? hooch? brain medicine? Yes, well, maybe I wouldn't need all that shit if I had someone else to share my life with."

Willis knew that was a shot at his profession, but grew weary of the same "I-work-hard-so-we-can-have-a-better-life" argument. So, instead he came back with, "'Someone?' Try something! Get a fucking hobby that doesn't turn you into a raving psycho and see where that gets you. I bet you'll be a whole lot happier . . . and more peasant to be around!" Willis rolled over on his side, facing away from Theresa.

"Oh, I'm not pleasant to be around? Well, then, why don't you just 'be around' someone else? Why are you still with me anyway? If I'm such a horrible person . . . ." The tears started to penetrate the surface of her eyeballs, were met with resistance.

Willis turned back around, looking her straight in the eyes. "Honestly, I don't want to give half of my money to a fucking drunk!" With that, a loud crash from the kitchen broke the tension momentarily - enough to disturb the hate-filled stare-down. "Jesus Christ! What are they doing in the kitchen at this time of night?"

"I think it's starting to wear off, you want I should roll us another one?" Phillip asked.

"OK, go ahead, but I'm hungry. I'm gonna go grab some chips out of the kitchen, if that's OK." Larry got up to leave as Phillip gave him permission with a wave of the hand and a careful eye on his stash resting next to his computer monitor.

[the author thinks to himself, "You know, I could go for some chips, actually."]

Larry sat down with an unopened bag of salsa-flavored Doritos and engulfed a third of the bag with army-like speed and precision. Phillip examined this spectacle out of the corner of his eye while still maintaining the joint-rolling process, smiling at his unwitting friend. After finishing, Larry asked, "You want any?"

"Naw. Go ahead and put them back. I'm almost done here anyway." As an afterthought, Phillip added, "On your way out, could you open up the window again? Got to maintain appearances, you know."

Larry left without hearing, and closed the door behind him. Over the noise of gunfire in some Southern Washington town, at the hands of his beloved Rambo, Phillip could hear his friend in the kitchen exclaim, "There you are! God damn it!"

Larry ran back into the room. "He's back! I found him in the kitchen. Do you know what I did with that piece of paper?"

"I don't know!" Suddenly irritated beyond reasoning, Phillip now wished he had not gotten his friend stoned. "Why can't you let . . . this . . . GO?"

Discovering the folded paper in his pocked, Larry ignored Phillip and ran out of the room once again. For five solid minutes, Larry ran around the kitchen/living room/ dining room area in search of the elusive fly; muttering quietly to the fly, "Why don't you land somewhere?" Phillip stayed behind, smoking the joint in peace, not wanting to witness this spectacle happening in his own house. He couldn't help cracking up, losing his grip on the smoke in his lungs, as Rambo broke down in tears.

[the author feels the fly has received too much attention.]

In the kitchen once again, Larry sees his third opportunity as the fly lands on one of the cupboards, seven and a half feet off the ground. He had knocked the fly down in mid-air twice in this ordeal, but the bastard would not die or sit still for long. Larry jumped, slammed the paper onto the cupboard, knocking a wok down from on top of it. The wok crashed to the floor as Larry jumped again with glee. "Yeah! Fuck yeah! I did it! Phillip," Larry continued yelling, not realizing the danger he was in. "I killed the little fucker! Come look!"

[the author pauses for another smoke, trying to decide what will happen next.]

Phillip ran into the kitchen, whispering with authority, "Shut the fuck up, will you? You're going to wake up my parents, you stupid ass!"

Mimicking his whispering, Larry replied, "Look at this baby! Guts spattered all over that cupboard, but I finally got him."

Phillip covered Larry's mouth with his hand, then rushed over to the stairs. Silence. No snoring, not even a fan humming. "Fuck, we've got to get out of here. My parents are up, and they're gonna come kick my ass."

Phillip and Larry ran back into the bedroom in a panic. "Does it smell like weed in here?"

"Of course it does! Because you forgot to open the window, and that damn incense has run out." Phillip ran to his desk and pulled out some air-freshener in a spray can. He unloaded around the vicinity of the doorway, then made his way all around the room. "Now, open up that window, will you?"

Larry spun around, frightened to move. "You don't think I smell like weed, do you?" He pleaded with his friend, hoping for an answer that would cover his ass.

"Of course you do! You've been in here smoking with me all night! That scent doesn't go away so easily, you know." After finishing with the spray can, he listened for footsteps. "Damn it, Larry." Phillip ran over to the window and opened it. "They're going to be pretty fucking suspicious that my room smells like a God-damned rain forest. Can't you do anything?"

Larry stood there shaking, face devoid of all color. "Listen, man. I can't take this. Maybe I should just leave."

"Where are you going to go? Out the window? That's a two-story drop, my friend. Just sit down, relax, and watch the rest of the movie." Phillip kept his ear on the door.

"It's already done." Larry sat down on the beanbag chair, arms crossed, legs furiously fidgeting.

"Well, then put in something else."

[the author inserts Tombstone into his DVD player, occasionally pausing to watch.]

"What do you want to watch?"

Phillip turned around, facing Larry. "What am I, your fucking mother? Do I have to make all the decisions around here? Jesus Christ! Just pick one!" Phillip returned to the door.

"OK, you want to go upstairs now? They're probably up there breaking stuff." Theresa knew, moments after her husband called her a "fucking drunk," something he never called her before, that this would be the last opportunity to try and win him back. She stood up, brushing away the wrinkles on her night gown; turning off the fan on her way to her door, motioning to Willis.

"Yeah, sure, why not? I'm wide awake now; can't have them keeping me up all night with your complaining." She ignored his sarcasm, instead throwing his robe at his head.

Theresa had trouble keeping her balance up the stairs. Her wobbly hand grabbed the railing with every step; the light blinded her. She noticed the fallen wok as soon as she reached the top of the stairs. Willis went over to pick up the discarded magazines on the living room floor, and straightened those messily replaced on the coffee table. Theresa placed the wok on the kitchen counter and said, "We should go talk to them. Make sure they keep the noise down." Willis returned her comment with a look of exhausted exasperation.

"Shit, they're here. OK, stay cool. Don't say anything. If they ask . . . uh . . . just say that we were . . . ."

[the author observes the dead fly and cold silence in the house, becoming paranoid.]

"Why don't we just say that we killed a fly?"

"Because, stupid! Why would we make such a ruckus over killing a fly? Let's just say we - " Phillip was interrupted by a knock on the door. He ran over to his chair, remaining ever so unsuspicious, and called out, "What?"

"Open the door, Phillip. We want to talk to you." His father. Lawyer; heavy sleeper; snorer. "Come on, Phillip. Now!" His mother. Nurse; light sleeper; alcoholic.

Phillip wiped the sweat from his head and answered the door with a smile. The Cowboys just shot some unsuspecting priest on the television. Larry turned the volume down. "What's up?"

"What was all that out there? Your mother and I are trying to sleep."

"Oh, sorry about that," and still drawing a blank, Phillip replied, "we were trying to kill a fly." Larry chuckled at this; Phillip glared over at him, though Larry remained fixated on the movie.

"Dammit, Phillip, do you know what time it is?" His mother exclaimed. "I'm tired and I have a headache. What in the hell are you thinking that would make you knock shit all over the place?"

With his head down, Phillip said quietly, "I'm sorry. It won't happen again."

"Really, Phillip? Because I don't believe you, you little liar!" His mother, still drunk from earlier in the evening, could not contain her rage. His father grasped her by the shoulders, trying to calm her down. "Don't touch me! You know what he's doing in here, don't you? He's in here getting high! I can tell. Can't you smell that? I know what he does in here! He's been doing it for years now. Lying right to our faces! Little asshole!" She barged in, pushing her son to the ground.

Larry turned around in shock. He stared at Phillip's mother as she walked over to the desk and picked out the stash. "You see? You see what our son spends his money on?" Then, thinking for a moment, she said, "Wait! He doesn't have a job! This is our money he's spending! Right here!"

Phillip's father looked stunned, then outraged. He stared at his son, waiting for the words to come. Before he could speak, Phillip's mother charged over to her son, picking him up by a handful of his hair. "Stand up when I'm talking to you!" As soon as he was on his feet, she slapped him across the face with the back of her hand, leaving a gash where her wedding ring struck his cheek. "That's what you get, you fucking pothead! You didn't think I knew, did you?" She smiled the smile of a warden who could finally place her least favorite prisoner in solitary confinement. "I'm going to enjoy this." She raised her hand again; his father stood motionless, now fully awake, but unwilling to defend his son.

Phillip shoved his mother to the ground. "Fuck off, you God-damned drunk! Don't you touch me! Look at your-self! You drink yourself stupid damn near every night, and you have the nerve to call me a pothead? If anything, you're the fuck-up around here."

"Are you going to let him do that to me?" A look of disbelief towards her husband, demanding defense against their son's actions.

Phillip walked over to his desk, grabbing his keys, wallet. He returned to his mother to snatch the rest of his weed, then he bumped into his father on his way out the door.

"You get back here and apologize to your mother, right now!"

Phillip ignored him. Larry, as if watching this unfold on a television screen, finally came to and ran out the door after his friend.

[the author grabs another iced tea, realizing how late it is, needing to stay awake.]

In the car, Phillip says to his friend, but really to himself, "God, I'm glad I did that. I've always wanted to tell that bitch off. She manages to embarrass me every chance she gets and she deserved everything she got."

"Phillip, where are we going?"

"We're going to your place, if that's OK." Phillip started to calm down as he asked this.

"Sure, we'll just go in through the downstairs door so we don't wake up anybody. You don't think I smell like weed still, do you?"

"No, not really. Hey, I'm sorry I was yelling at you back there. I can't believe I was so afraid of confronting my paren\ts. I mean, they really had that coming!"

"So, what are you going to do now?" Larry couldn't look at his friend, instead focusing on the windshield wipers brush back and forth.

[the author is getting very drowsy, wants to end this soon.]

Phillip didn't answer, looking out the passenger side window as his friend drove. Silence engulfed the car.

When they reached Larry's house, Phillip asked with a smile, "Hey, is there anywhere we can smoke the rest of this? I've been far too stimulated tonight."

[the author stops for now, smiling at his conquest: one dead fly, smeared in the crack of a folded piece of paper, guts sticking to the white sheet like melted cheese; turns off his computer and goes to bed.]