The living room smelled like someone had drowned a skunk and left its corpse in a pile of

gym socks.

Inches from the ceiling smoke lingered like a thick white fog over everyone's heads.

Floating in the shadows, the cloud appeared stationary and motionless.

But as it passed, the purple beam of the black light mounted on the wall transformed, swirling

and twirling into itself like a psychedelic tapestry of corkscrews and spirals.

There was a horror movie called Murder Dome playing on the TV, but nobody was watching

it.

Instead, nearly every saggy bloodshot eye in the room was trained on the trippy spectacle

hovering in the air before them.

Only Jerry's attention was elsewhere.

He was kneeling at the dinged up wooden coffee table in front of the couch, putting

the finishing touches on the joint that he'd been rolling.

Once he was packed tight enough, he sealed it shut, flipped the button to his mouth, and

then swept the loose stems onto the floor.

And he went out of light, he asked.

No one replied, and when he glanced up towards his friends, he realized just how baked everyone

was.

Honour, for instance, had become one with the couch.

He had melted so far into its pillows that it was impossible to tell where human being

ended, and the sofa's cushions began.

Liz, who'd been wearing the same ratty sweatsuit for the past three days, was curled up on the

...