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Josh had been twelve, he had snuck into a cop-raided crack house several
weeks after a sting removed the local gangs. After some random
destruction, he found a few hits of peyote behind a wallboard. Recognizing
it from a D.A.R.E. assembly, he took one hit. He spent several hours walking up and down Main Street, waving his arms and whispering segments of Mark Twain stories. It was late at night and Josh's town was socially backwards so nobody saw him and no security cameras recorded him. By the time Josh came down and decided to try another hit, the crack house had been sold to developers and turned into a McDonalds. The bit of wallboard space where the drugs had been was now the deep fat fryer. Josh, in a rare moment of sanity and general-common sense, never ate at McDonalds ever again. Especially not that one. Sure, he sometimes physically attacked a McDonalds (including that one with a purple brick, five years later) but not ever ate in one.
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6/20/2008 6:59:26 AM
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