“What’s it called?”
There’s a cloud of smoke in the room, and the lights are all low, in a dozen colours, like the inside of a fogged kaleidoscope.
“How do we do it?” asks Remy.
Stomper hands each of them a vial of thin green liquid. It flouresces in the miasma. “Ok,” he says, sitting on the couch. “This is gonna sound weird.”
They all wait.
“You have to pour it on your feet.”
There is a brief argument, and then Remy tries it, ’cause why the fuck not? It doesn’t work.
And then he sees some shit.