Lucas the Paleontologist wants to tell Arno and Milton about the black-and-red Vietnamese pterodactyls gliding in and out of the silver night clouds above. But the complex process of conjuring words, placing them in the correct order, and then speaking them aloud seems beyond his capability.

“I’m supposed to meet Clyde up there.” Arno points at a hill-size lump of gray art-class clay and pulls on the red-and-white knit ski cap cap.

“Who?” Milton asks.

From Lucas’s mouth, unbidden, comes, “Giant Clyde-eyed cyclops war panther.”

Arno ignores him. “The dealer. Look for a guy with a beard and a red bandanna.”

Lucas the Ignored is led up gummy steps to a doughy crag. Above them, goat-legged black-pajamaed Vietcong satyrs scamper over the clay. Across the walkway below, light foam effervesces over the tall walls around the skating rink where King B.B. rules the air.

“Here, pussy pussy,” a voice in the dark growls. Someone with a beard, wearing a red bandanna like a skullcap, steps out of the shadows. It’s Abe Lincoln with deadly red eyes, wearing a sleeveless denim jacket adorned with medals, chains, and patches. His bare arms are tattooed with skulls, daggers, and roses. The acrid scent of long-marinating body odor wafts into Lucas the Terrified’s nostrils.

Even when one is tripping, there can be moments of clarity. Or, at least, of imagined clarity. A shudder quakes through Lucas. This is not some enterprising young college dealer picking up extra scratch. Nor some struggling musician pulling together next month’s rent. This is a real, honest-to-God, smelly, tattooed, scary-looking criminal.

We’re not in the suburbs anymore, amigos.

For a moment, the tres amigos are speechless. Then, possibly to break the ice, Milton says, “Hells Angel?”

“Pagan’s, dumbass.” President Lincoln turns so they can see the big white-and-blue Pagan’s patch on the back of his jacket.

“Why the apostrophe?” asks Lucas.

“Ignore him; he’s tripping,” Arno says.

The Great Emancipator sets his hairy reddened eyeballs on Arno. “What’s with your face, man?”

“Barbecue,” Lucas the Wit says.

“Shut the fuck up,” Arno snaps, now all tough guy in front of Bizzaro Abe, the anti-president. Then says, “Sunburn.”

“Where’s the bread?” The Rail-Splitter extends a hand. Long, dirty nails with black crescents. The Pagan’s definitely need to bone up on punctuation and personal hygiene. Miss Landers would have made mincemeat of Clyde. Nothing drove her crazier than misplaced apostrophes. Miss Landers on a chopper wearing a leather vest with paper-clip chains. Tattooed on her arms, the fourteen punctuation marks of English grammar. The patch on her back: “Hell’s Grammarians.”

Arno hesitates. “It’s Owsley, right?”

“Crowley, yeah,” says Honest Abe.

“Owsley,” Arno corrects him. “The Grateful Dead’s guy.”

“Right.” Red-eyed Clyde wriggles his dirty fingers. “So, how about it?”

“As long as it’s Owsley,” Arno says, stalling nervously.