The club was dark and smoky. Bass thumped in time with multicolored flashing cubes of light along the ceiling, walls, and floor.

Shadows of figures melded with the crowd which gyrated slowly along to the beat of the music. Something purple was shouldering through the crowd towards me.

Spirals and colored shapes burst from the speakers as visual representations of sound. They cast colored highlights on the purple figure.

It was the Pillsbury Doughboy, fat and angry, dressed in a purple tracksuit. His pale simple face glared at me while his thick fingers fished around his slick purple clothes.

He produced a nickel plated revolver from his jacket and raised it at me. He flicked his wrist as he fired and I flinched every at the shots. Bursts of light and spiraling colors exploded from the barrel searing my brain. It was too much.

I opened my eyes, and gasped for air while looking around the back seat of my friend’s car. Music thumped loudly.

“This,” I exclaimed, “is some really fucking good acid, man.”