47: New Mexico

It’s a player’s house, I know it; there’s magic and XP everywhere in this bitch.

I start searching the crates, the barrels … the medicine cabinet is the fucking motherload: more bottles than I can count, pills in every color of the rainbow – ambien, benzedrine, codeine, diazepam – “Are you a believer in miracles,” I sing to myself. “Da-doo una time some-thing miracles.”

I’m popping them into my mouth like skittles when the old man comes in, a huge chrome revolver in a holster on his hip. “What the fuck are you doing?” he shouts.

I give him the signal, slapping two fingers on my arm. He pulls his gun and drops into a crouch. Time for plan B, I think. “Can I get a couple of extra-large chalupas?” I ask, “And an orange coke?”

A metallic click echoes off the bathroom tile as he cocks the hammer back. “Sorry, I thought this was a Taco Bell.”

He shakes his head. “Son, do you think this is a game?” He asks. “Shit,” He stands up and looks at the gun in his hands. “What kind of world are we living in?”

“The World of Reality,” I say, but he ain’t listening.