Page 32 of Mexico Can Choke On It
“Seat belt,” she pants, reaching across my lap. Her face is inches from mine, close enough that I notice tiny flecks of gold in her eyes. A loose strand of hair brushes my cheek. My heart rate doubles instantly.
God, she smells good.
Or at least Ithinkshe smells good.
Could be the electrical burn still cooking my brain.
She slides into the driver’s seat and jams the key into the ignition. Nothing happens. Not a single sputter.
“Come on, girl,” she coos to the dashboard, patting it lovingly. “Start for Mama. I just fed you the expensive gasoline yesterday.”
She tries again. And again. On the ninth attempt, the engine coughs to life like a pack-a-day smoker.
I stick my tongue out to celebrate.
It feels… wrong.
“Hairy tongue. Like kitty cat. Meow.” I attempt to demonstrate a cat licking its paw.
“Oh, I’m in so much fucking trouble with my brother,” Petra groans. “I’ve kidnapped a tased billionaire who thinks he’s a cat.”
I wiggle my tongue again, trying to see it in the rearview mirror.
It looks normal. It does notfeelnormal.
I scratch frantically at my tongue like I can scrape the imaginary fur off it.
Petra watches out of the corner of her eye. “So, your arm works now.Miracle one complete. Time to jumpstart those legs, and you might survive climbing two flights of stairs to my apartment.”
Two flights? That feels… ambitious.
I concentrate hard on my lower extremities. Are they tingling? Something is definitely waking up down there. A very specific throbbing begins to register.
“Legs move,” I announce proudly.
We come to a stop at a red light. Petra turns to check my progress—and her eyes go comically wide.
“I hate to break it to you, B” she says slowly, gaze fixed firmly below my waist, “but that’s your, uh, third leg you’re… flexing.”
I peer down at my crotch and—oh.
OH.
My penis is at full attention, creating a tent in my dress pants. And it’s… twitching. Rhythmically. Like a dog’s tail wagging with hyper enthusiasm.
I should be mortified. I should be apologizing profusely and covering myself with the closest object.
Instead, I find myself grinning like an idiot. Why? Because this isn’t real. It can’t be.
Nothing—absolutely nothing—in my careful, overly planned existence has ever been this unhinged, chaotic, off-the-rails insane.
That’s how I know this is a dream. I’m safely at home, in my king-plus-king-sized bed, experiencing the most vivid dream of my life.
Or I’m dead.
***
Thisisfuckingreal.Turns out, not a hallucination.
