The bartender gives the bouncer a significant look. The darkhaired man lifts his chin, and walks over to you, slowly, fluidly. "I think it's about time you left the bar," he says, like a confessional.

You look up at his watery eyes and start to speak, but vomit tumbles down your chest, every color and sensation exploding against the tuxedo. "Jeeeezus!" he screams, and rips his tie off, dances naked on a table, kicking drinks in the laps of wealthy patrons. "I ain't got no body--" he begins, and then slops into bloody pieces as a etching laser from the next table guts him.

A faint molasses stench of burning leaves. "Come over," the hand gestures, and you find yourself facing the Priest of Goat, whose heavy hands beckon you with the placid somnolence of his smoke. "Join us," he whispers.