Vapors rose from the glass of booze below my face like some witch’s brew. I leaned across the bar, locked eyes. “She pulled him out of the water, squatted over him, and took a piss on his chest right there on the shore.”

A beat passed where ‘Sweet Melissa’ ended and ‘Gimme Three Steps’ by Lynyrd Skynyrd started to play. I had time to think, Gimme three steps towards the door. Then the bald guy from the bathroom started howling laughter. Razz looked perplexed, but started laughing too, that donkey’s bray that brought back fond, yet fuzzy memories. One of the signature sounds of The Mule Kick. Beside me, Malia, who had just taken a sip from her drink, snorted and cupped her mouth.

The laughter fed on itself like fire on oxygen. Spread like a disease. This was madness. I may have just murdered a man engaged in this senseless escapade and here we were telling funny stories. And then I was laughing, myself. Couldn’t help it. The absurdity of it all washed over me. Razz’s streaming eyes, saliva stringing from his steel teeth. The man in the plaid shirt slamming his hand on the bar like a judge calling for order. Malia hunched over, her face turning red as she struggled to keep from spraying Long Island Iced Tea across the bar.

“Fucking Tommy.…” Razz says, pausing between bursts of laughter. “Christ…his mom’s peeing on.… Peeing on him right there…in front of…all his friends and shit.” His back is arched, eyes closed, screaming laughter at the ceiling, gripping the bar with one hand for balance. The other guy has gone silent, laughing so hard he can’t breathe. Malia can’t hold it any longer and booze goes spewing through her fingers like puke. I catch some on my shoulder, and it makes me laugh that much harder. I can’t help myself. This is madness, plain and simple. I’m going insane.

I don’t know where we are. A warehouse? Underground in a bunker somewhere, like the lab Doctor O used to hatch his clones? Is this part of some deranged experiment, or just a senseless hoax? And what’s the difference, anyways?

“The fucking thing is…” Razz says when he can breathe, “it just makes…the stinging worse! Like rubbing…salt in…a wound!”

There are functions beyond our control. Sneezing in the sun. Yawning during a lecture. Laughing in church. I couldn’t have stopped laughing had someone stuck a gun in my mouth. Which, in a way, is what this felt like.

We were howling, gasping. God, it felt good. Of all the horrors I’d seen that night, the only thing I could picture at that moment was Lisa in her tacky one-piece with the frilly skirt squatting over her son and squirting stinging pee onto his torso while he squirmed in front of all his best friends.