By the time the acid took hold, we were halfway to Edmonton. Tommy rode shotgun, a cigarette dangling from his dry lips, and Bear scrunched in the back seat, shifting constantly. Johansson, our first year roommate, had called us on his cell a few hours ago, breathing heavily, saying that he needed to get out, that everything had gone wrong.
"Talk to me, Joe," I had said.
"Stay back you fuckers! Stay back!"
'What the fuck, Joe? Is this ajoke?"
We burned through the prairie night - ours eyes twisted; our skulls hollowed. Tommy flicked his cigarette out the window and lit another one. Tommy and Johansson had been the closest out of all of us, but that wasn't …
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