He took to pot-shotting passing cars with an old .22 Henry. Maybe it was pockets of alkaline blue still bloomed in his brain from all those younger-day mushrooms. And after grosses of doses of LSD, you’d think at least ONE flashback could have graced him. “No such thing,” he insisted. “Just more Nixon propaganda.”
Arguing ensued about the charge. Assault with a deadly weapon? Can you assault a car? Hunting auto out of season?
In the end declared a danger to himself and others, they opted for a ward instead of a cell. Serious sedatives were employed. He’d read that book one too many times and pretended the Atavan was Absinthe.
Passing cars shed no more bullets, which was actually a shame. It may have been the last sane act in a suicidal world.
J.MICHAEL SHELL 