We were somewhere on the edge of Bedford, howling down the Tom Landry Expressway when the drugs began to take hold. As enormous bats, big enough to take a man's head in a bite, swooped and glared and revealed dire promises in fiery eyes, I shrank back in the passenger seat and screamed, "Sweet Jesus - what are those monsters?" Pachall only laughed and stomped on the gas, goosing that monstrous purple convertible up to an easy 120 as the bats tumbled and snarled in our wake.

How in sweet hell had it come to this?