He crushes the beer can with one hand as the other hand pulls the truck off to the side of the road and into the desert. The images seem like a mirage as they appear to grow out of the heat. The Galleta Meadows comes alive with the prehistoric metal sculptures he has been dreaming about for weeks.
 Hunter Thompson is screaming to him in the howling wind. “Don’t you worry none. Just remember, you don’t like the drugs, but the drugs like me.” This sentence dances around him in a psychedelic motion as he reaches out to the Columbian Mammoth.

 He strips off his shirt and lets the mid-day sun cook the white skin underneath. He walks alone in the desert, the truck fades from view.

“I have to seek out new meaning amongst the statues that remain here.”
 The man lets his soul turn black as he converses with the images of Galleta. Strangely comforting are the saber tooth cats, elephant-like gomphothere, and camels. More disturbing are the lone catholic priests clutching their rosary’s and crucifixions, the dying faces of caballeros.

A mighty T-Rex tries to block out the sun. The man is inexplicably pulled toward the creature, and rests in the shade of his mighty frame.
 Just when he thought he’d experienced it all, a serpent slowly rises from the sand, it’s body writhing around the cacti and trees, even the road. Fire emanates from it’s mouth as it roars loudly across the valley.

He has found his mighty Allah, as his skin is now as black as the serpent’s scales.
 The creature looks at the man in black with a steely dead eye, then crushes him with razor sharp teeth.

The man closes his eyes with contentment, as everything became clear to him out here.

Wench, bring my ale, what say you?

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