The lava lamp bubbles its strange wax work. Neon signs of beer brands decorate the wood panel walls. A wall length purple cloth printed with Ganesh covers one side of the room. It reeks of patchouli and ganja. In fact, a small atmosphere is forming under the ceiling. Retro and corny, but hey that's me.
It's the life. I slug my beer, slam some Daniels, and sip from a bluntastically resurrected cheroot. My feet, shod with cowboy boots, in keeping to the theme of my magic cowboy hat. I pull off sexy tight jeans in a way I could never have when I was alive. I have on a soft brown plaid shirt, its breast pocket bulging with Lucky Strikes. A lion's head bollo rests against where my heart is supposed to be.
I'm wearing a president. Nixon, specifically. No, I didn't exhume the fucker and drape his skin on mine. It's a rubber mask, left over from my bank robbing heyday. I was never caught. Who'd suspect a high caliber celebrity as myself would rob a bank? Nobody, and as for motive, it's thrills and chills, that's why, baby.
The gimp suit chafes, but without it I'd resemble a butcher's kitchen. I had to zip open my mouth, to allow access to the holy triad of intoxicants. It was then that I noticed shark teeth had migrated to the general vicinity of my mouth. I have fangs now! How cool is that? Maybe I oughta go knock around a couple of grizzlies and mountain lions...
The doorbell rings.
Who the fuck would scale a sheer cliff, ford a murderous rapid a mile wide, battle through grizzly country, and dodge a dozen automatic mounted gun emplacements to knock on my door?
It must be someone coming to kill me, or my very first ex-wife, the one that got away. Either way, the prospect excites me.