Nellis trembled in the wake of the beast. He was turned a mouse by its size, by the ferocity of its ugly face, and draconic, hot breath that was expelled with every horrifying breath. It offered to shake his hand, which he thought was completely, utterly, and absolutely absurd, and then it made sense to him. This was obviously the result of drugs.

Eureka, he thought, monotonously, his brows furrowing in disbelief as he reached to indulge his trip. A small human hand was placed on the leathery, scaled fingers of the beast, and he gently shook its gigantic—paw, as it were. “I can’t remember what I took, but shit, that’s good,” he rubbed the back of his neck, no longer fearing for his life. The worlds’ colours did not seem brighter, and he could not taste emotions, or hear the sky—whatever, the drug trip was clearly focusing on vibrant, horrifying delusions.