This is not a good town for psychedelic drugs. Reality itself is too twisted.
– Hunter S. Thompson, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.
I don’t want to die but he accelerates anyway, overtaking the dawdling Transit Van with its radio seemingly tuned in to a station from another dimension, it’s chassis shuddering by virtue of the distorted and garbled bass left to scream out into the ether. The voices hidden in that thunderous buzz sound like sordid prayers delivered in a dead language, and the driver is laughing and jittery, foaming at the mouth and baring his teeth at the blood-red sky.
A beaten down Mini is perched on the cusp of the hedgerow just ahead, it’s occupant sat with a tie hung loose about his neck, another slave to corporate Britain and her bountiful offerings of unpaid overtime. He seems to be talking but no one is listening.
A cow is dozing on the lip of an embankment, it’s dreams unfettered by its lumbering frame. I scrawl a quick note on a scrap of paper I find in the glove-compartment and let it fly from the crack of the window, In its dreams the cow can fly!, and I smile out here on the tattered edges of the city, a moonstruck tangle of haunted cottages and pitchfork murders, ancient abbeys and lonely trees.
I don’t want to die but he accelerates anyway.
READING: Beastings, by Benjamin Myers.