This is your ticket to an apocalyptic redneck party. Someone gave those rednecks l.s.d, turning them to lunacy; some skinny dude with a dirty New York Yankees hat screwed onto his head. I don't know his name, so I can't tell you . . . but he gave me this.

I open my fingers to reveal the tiny, white square buried in the middle of my palm. "Go ahead," I say.

"Thanks."

"Any tiiimmmmeeee."

It's shortly after ten o'clock, and the rednecks here act like they've been drunk for days. Many of them have.

Several fights are going on at the same time, and some people are fucking in the yard, of which, in the middle, their is an enormous bon-fire. It's like Walpurgis Night in a small town.

A cowboy walks by in a bloody tee-shirt. His eyes are dilated to the point of non-existence. His face is waxen in the fire light as sweat beads break out all over his face.

A half naked girl is rolling around on the grass, her hair inches away from the fire.

There are a couple hundred people here, and they just seem to keep showing up.

Having fun yet?

The house is just as crazy as the back yard. There's a band playing in the corner of the living room, but they aren't that good. Some local shit band playing Nirvana and Metallica covers. The singer looks a little like Kurt Cobain, but you don't think much of it. After all, the acid is kicking in making the band sound like their playing out of a deep well.

Looking at your watch you realize that you've been here les than an hour, but that will soon change. Soon it will seem as if you have never left this place, and maybe you were born here.

It is the only place you have ever known, and it is the only place you will ever know. The ground quakes slightly underneath and you look for me, but I'm nowhere in sight. I can't be everywhere at once. Besides, you took the ticket . . . I didn't force you.

This is never and easy ride, you decide. Maybe you can find your way out of the party before the acid really kicks in.

Your palms sweat a little as your trying to figure out what you want to do.

The band stops playing . . . a moment of silence that seems to go on forever.

There's a girl standing next to you with a plume of hair that seems to touch the ceiling. Looking up, following the plume with your eyes, you try to see where it ends.

Your feeling a little shaky; a little sick.

You need some fresh air, but the band starts up again. The notes get thicker, and for a moment they sound really good.

No. The singer really does look like Kurt Cobain. Perhaps it's Cobain's ghost. Now you can't get the God damn affair out of your head.

Bodies start to collide with you. Opposite the band a fight has broken out. The band continues to play, but you wish they would stop. The idea of two people beating the shit out of each other makes you feel cold.

The acid is taking charge, but there's still plenty of time to get out.

Scenes from the ashtray:

The hallway seems to be endless, and the rooms ever more endless.

Someone said, "it's at the end of the hall".

THE END OF THE FUCKING HALL!

How many rooms until the end?

There are people fucking in some of the rooms, their elastic flesh stretching in bounds; faces slack and expressionless. One girl looks up, her head stretching wider. "What the fuck!? Wrong God damn room!" Dude looks up from his puffed up scrotum sack. His tiny eyes are unbelievably black. "Close the fucking door!" The dude snarls low as the girl's breasts melt into his hands.

The door closes like gunfire.

And in some the rooms people are getting high. Rednecks are sprawled out on a bright green couch, their legs hanging long in front of them. Smoke orbits their faces and swirls in front of their eyes. A small television set is breathing heavily in the corner, and one of the rednecks is stroking his stiff prick through his Levi jeans. A buddy of his is secretly turned on by the spectacle, but he would never speak of it. In fact, when he masturbates he routinely imagines that it's him who's sucking his veiny cock.

When their smashed up against each other in the cab of the his Ford, the smell of Old Spice and Kodiak chew . . .

The guy looks away; picks a bong off the floor and tries to get lost in the fact that two chicks are fucking each other back to back with one of those double-headed, plastic cocks.

The redneck in the Levis is watching his buddy from the corner of an eye; lifts a forty of Hamms from between his leg and sucks.

In other rooms people are caged, frightened, lost. They're wondering how they got here, what there doing here, and how long they will remain here . . . at the party; in the universe. The universe was a pretty big place, and maybe there was nothing else. For many of them this is the first time; their unsure whether they should go out there and fight, or love. They hold their beers in their hands for hours without ever taking a sip, and when they do take a sip they are certain it's gasoline . . . or piss. The dude with the New York Yankees cap never talked about anything like this happening.

In another room someone is screaming.

In anther someone is crying.

Girls are huddled in corners, their bleached hair tumbling over bare, trembling arms.

Someone punches a wall, his fist coming back in bubble gum/ketchup tatters. And at the end of it all, finally, you find the bathroom, but there's a fucking line in front of it.

Another couple hours have passed; or maybe aeons.

You manage to get outside again. Turning around, you take in the single-wide castle, complete with dungeons, labyrinths, and rednecks. It is the place of your birth, but the time has come. The time has come explore other worlds and become consumed by entire universes.

The time has come for you to face your fear of the outside.

A couple girls are dancing naked in front of the fire, which is spilling into the darkness. Rednecks go up to the girls, grope them, and then walk away. They don't seem to mind. In fact, the opposite. You think of doing the same, but you know better. You know that the girls are mannequins melting in flame.

Looking into the stars, you find some inner peace. And then it all comes to a halt. The Apocalypse is here, but don't feel bad . . . there's no way you could have prepared yourself for what was to come next.

Out of the ashtray and into the fire (or what happens when you feed several hundred rednecks l.s.d. and alcohol before setting them loose on each other):

Their came a rumbling from the sky, but it wasn't from the sky; five fucked up, twisted-in-the-head rednecks toppled an entire van.

An unsuspecting girl who was twisted-in-the-head herself didn't hear the van as it was rolling toward her like a dying elephant.

The girl was crushed and killed instantly, sending a shock through the whole party.

The single wide trailer rolls on the waves like a distant ship.

"YOU MOTHERFUCKERS!" Someone yells.

One of the five rednecks who helped topple the van is crouched in front of the other side with his hands underneath. The girl's blood spills between his legs, and he's trying to actually lift the van by himself.

"Oh my God! Oh my God!" A hysterical girl scratches her face with her long nails until her face is dripping.

Somewhere near, another fight is going.

"Someone call the cops!"

"Fuck no!"

Fear and paranoia are on the air.

"Who threw this fucking party?!"

"What's happening?!"

"Someone's fucking dead! Someone's fucking dead!"

And the Kurt Cobain looking dude is crawling out one of the van windows. He looks dazed. One of the five attacks the Kurt Cobain looking dude, his eyes blazing. The Kurt Cobain looking dude goes down like a feather pillow and proceeds to get his skull pounded in.

People standing around the fight are crying and laughing uncontrollably.

Nearly everyone is outside now, save for those who could not find their way out. They remain inside, on their hands and knees, in prayer. The end is here, and for now that's all they know.

It is not a thing they need to see. It is a thing they can feel.

They are weightless, as they are floating inside.

Still, outside the sky is burning. Humans at war in a small, hick town. This was supposed to be the party of the year, and already two are dead . . . some party.

I bet if you've known things were going to turn out like this you wouldn't of come.

I hope I didn't disappoint you too much.

Still, I know I did. I know because I can see you scampering into the woods behind my house. You look like you've seen a ghost, but you got to get over it. Maybe you shouldn't have come . . . and you definitely shouldn't have accepted the ticket. Besides, people die every day. Violence happens. It's been going on for centuries and it'll keep on going. I can't keep that away from them.

And there you are, moving away from me; through the dark and toward . . .

You sit beneath a tree for an eternity. In the distance sirens sound like howling demons. They move closer, and soon the sky will lighten.

I'm waiting back in Hell with my New York Yankees cap back on.

Let them come.

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