After drinking the calibrated liquor and puffing the correct amount of hash required for contemplation of the Under-Thoughts, Rat Shit McLean retired from the squat’s audience chamber (a large wooden room with no furniture intact, posters like ancient, peeling hieroglyphs, and enough sweat and piss to salt five alpine goats) down into the cellar, placing his hand on a larger clay hand held out to him. The warmth of his flesh left an impression in the soft coldness. The hand retracted into a fist, which shot out and hit Rat Shit in the solar plexus. His vomit registered Authorized and a panel slid open in the concrete wall.
Inside a small alcove, the Twice Divided Divine Divination Devil, a grotesque (horned, stone and screaming) dripping small drops of ichor into a bowl set into the wall. Rat Shit knew that if he placed a thumb dip of the liquid under his tongue he would travel into the True Now Now Realm, a dimension beyond the false reality of material existence, free from the prison that was his meat and opinions, into the abyss of eternal Alright.
But he had just come to dump the garbage from last night’s shit show and you had to go through the basement to get to the alley.