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2 JORNIE MOGRE “We each took one,” Jay said. He was now in the front row of his father’s church, his mother was at the piano and his brothers and sisters sat beside him. The congregation had no faces. He looked at his brothers and sisters and they had no faces, he looked at his mother and father— “Man, you’re going to be tripping for a long time,” Ezra said. “An- other six or eight hours at least. And when you crash you are going to crash hard.” “Man, why does anyone take this stuff? It’s gonna kill me, man.” “You'll be all right.” “What am I going to do, man? What am I going to do?” Jay sobbed. “It’s Sunday. I should be in church. Man, we have to find a church. We have to go where the death demon can’t get us. I gotta find a church, man.” “No,” Ezra said. “You don’t want to go to a strange church tripping on acid.” “I gotta get to church, man. It’s Sunday. I have to go to church. My father wants me in church. It’s the Last Days, man, and evil is being turned loose on the world.” His speech was rapid and desperate, the words spitting out like bullets from a machine gun. Ezra wanted to tell him that his father was not there, his father did not know Jay was tripping on LSD. But Ezra knew nothing could be ex- plained to Jay while he was still peaking on the acid. He had to humor him until he came down. As dawn strayed golden fingers upon the streets of San Francisco, they walked in search of a church. Jay constantly looked over his shoulder for the stalking demon. He could not see him, but he could hear his footsteps.

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