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Tuesday 200 - #42

Seventeen more hours on the Greyhound and he’d be there. He’d left home thirty-five hours ago, and except for making a quick transfer at the Chicago bus terminal, he hadn’t set foot on solid ground since. The Windy City's bus number was 714. He took that as a sign, and proceeded to pop 2 of the Quaaludes that he had in his backpack.

There had been stops along the way, for fuel and for food and to change drivers, but he didn’t dare get off the bus. He wasn’t sure if his legs would support him. It wasn’t just the stumble biscuits. Somewhere just west of Wisconsin he’d grown bored of the lude buzz and figured a half-tab of microdot would be just the ticket.

An hour later the sunburned grandma across the aisle decided to have a chat with him. “You look so much like my Claude” she cooed, her words popping out in kiwi-green balloons. “Well, before that pit bull chewed half his face off.”

She had split into two and grown knitting needles for fingers. Those poor harmless skein people. Why must she slice into their baby blue brains?

Sixteen more hours to go.

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