TTR Game of Toanz

@Cadorman has thistles stuck in his razor shag hair, he's full of dust and dirt, pretty sad state really.
The bus gently pulls up to him along the roadside. He's walking. Kinda mad.
He figures he's not wanted. That this bus is a perhaps dream that will never happen for him.

The girls on the bus are waving out the windows, blowing kisses, begging him to get on, winking... flashing their...

He's barely noticing, still walking dejectedly, kicking stones. The bus follows him, creeping along.
Callie from Cali opens the door.... smiles her sweetest surfer girl smile, and says "Wanna ride, handsome?"

Does @Cadorman get on? Does He?
 
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The airbrakes whoosh and the bus lurches to a stop. @Cadorman keeps walking.

The door opens.

One by one, the whole motley crew onboard, piles out of the bus, bottles, reefers, red cups in hand.
About forty people, a joyous chorus of drunk and high beautiful half-nekkid people, assault him with reasoning.
They are begging, PLEADING with @Cadorman to stop, to come back and just get on the frickin' bus.

@4406Pack holds up the beautiful uncased original Jackson Custom

He stops. Turns around, brushes a dirty, greasy lock of hair away from his eye
 
Callie from Cali walks ahead few more steps, closer to @Cadorman ...

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"If you choose come with us, I'll take real good care of you!.... What do you say? Are you in?"

a quarter mile back down the road you can hear the pregant girl still shouting at @Cadorman
"YOU LOUSY S.O.B!!! COME BACK HERE AND FACE ME LIKE MAN, YOU G-D LOSER!!!"
 
"We are saving you from your own stupid self, my bro" murmurs Jethro Rocker.

@Cadorman puts up a bit of a struggle, but the three dudes quickly subdue him, then wrap him up with zip ties and gaffers tape.
They stuff him into the cargo compartment, making sure he's got a vodka bottle positioned with a straw hanging close to his mouth.
Cali thoughtfully peels down her damp black undies and hangs them over his face, "to keep his face warm" she says,
but they sure don't cover much.

@mjh36 closes the damn cargo bay doors, everyone piles onto the bus, and the wild road trip party can finally resume,
And so begins our epic journey.

Welcome aboard @Cadorman

Where are we headed? To the stars my friends, to the stars.


@Inspector #20
@LiveeviL2000
@C-Grin
@Thatbastarddon
@mcblink
@SG John
@Clockworkmike
@Mitch Pearrow SJMP
@4406Pack
@iblive
@mjh36
@Headache
@Iron1
@Don O
@fitz
@Mr. Potato Head
@Jethro Rocker
@Cadorman
 
See, Man??? You start with a clean stock of dried poppy pods. Pulverize in a blender and scald with water. Don't boil. Don't burn. Don't vaporize. Just scald.

Blend on low for about a minute, and then add a dash of lemon juice to taste. Add a cup of fine, aged brandy and then strain through an old T-shirt to remove lingering lumps.

As I poured the slosh into what would become my ceremonial chalice - plastic child's cereal bowl with a built-in silly straw on the side - I learned how to drink it. Rather, it seemed to teach me how. Its nauseating properties demanded that it be downed fast at first, and then titrated for the rest of the session.

The steam formed strange, demonic looking imsges as if a devil was about to burst forth from the slurry.

Fifteen minutes after downing my first bowl of poppy-pod tea, I entered "Flanders Fields," from the John McCrae poem: Where the poppies blow between the crosses, row on row.

Immediately, I felt redeemed. The raw reel of life became distant, pleasant. My head was an overstuffed pillow that could softly implode any minute, and it didn't matter. Nothing could.

A pleasant pressure settled on the back of my neck. I was snacky. I wanted sweets. I felt the promise of a divine massage as the pressure spread through my shoulders and opened my ribs like wings. My thoughts slowed down until just about everything seemed to fold neatly inside everything else.

I became happily over-focused in the comfortable mud of abstraction and triumph; immortality bobbed around me like fat peaches in a hot tub.

It was far from the predictable recklessness of alcohol or the silly buzz of marijuana. I didn't have the lubricated jaws of a chatty coke fiend or the mystical misconceptions of a psychedelic spaceman.

It was quiet up here in my bunk....
 
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