Shrooms Q Hussie <99% INSTANT>

He chewed the mushrooms. They tasted of dirt and lightning.

Not metaphorically. The bark on the Douglas firs developed vertical gills, expanding and contracting in slow, synchronous waves. The moss at their roots glowed a phosphorescent chartreuse. Q felt his spine unlock, vertebrae by vertebrae, as if someone were unzipping him from the base of his skull.

"Hussie," he whispered again, and this time, the word had a shape. It hovered in the air, a little cursive cloud. shrooms q hussie

At first, Q thought it was a deer. But its legs bent backward at too many joints. Its fur was the color of a CRT television tuned to a dead channel—that dancing, nihilistic gray. It had no face, just a smooth, oval head, but he could feel it smiling.

Then it appeared.

It stepped out from behind a hemlock and sat down directly in front of him, mimicking his posture.

He started to cry. Then he started to laugh. It was the same sound. He chewed the mushrooms

"Why now?" Q asked. His tongue felt like a warm potato.