The other night one of my favorite bartenders, whom, for the purposes of this story, we will call Jonah, but whose real name is absolutely nothing like that, offered me a ride home. Now, this seemed like merely a nice gesture, at first. But things would soon take a darker turn.
The first sign of trouble appeared when, after we got into the car, Jonah locked the doors. He looked over at me with a maniacal grin on his face. "Man, I ate a bunch of pot brownies tonight. I'm a little baked." Then he started off up the street.
Good God, what had I gotten myself in to? I knew someone under the crazed influence of that evil herb was probably planning to do unspeakable things to me, such as making me listen to a CD by the band Kansas, or perhaps even worse. I had just begun to look for a chance to escape, when Jonah announced "We're stopping at the bakery for croissants!"
What in his druggie world was that code for? I damned well knew there was no place in my neighborhood you could buy croissants at three in the morning. We pulled up to the curb at an intersection of darkened buildings, with no sign of this wee-hours "croissant shoppe" in sight.
"Stay in the car!" Jonah ordered, as he hopped out. I trembled with indecision. Who were these so-called "bakery people" whom he was meeting? I supposed they were actually drug dealers, who were going to aid him in getting even more "baked." Was he ordering me to stay in the car to keep me under his control, or was he actually protecting me, in case the "croissant deal" turned violent?
Before I could make a break for it, Jonah was back in the car, bearing a large, white bag. "What do you want to start with, sweet or savoury?" he asked me. I assumed this was more of the same "drug lingo," where "sweet" meant, perhaps, crystal, and savoury meant the Big H. Whatever, I was not about to lose my head by imbibing any of that crap. I had limited myself to only about 15 White Russians that night (I am "the dude," you know) and wasn't about to muddy my mental acuity with drugs!
I had to think fast, though. "Sweet" I replied. Jonah reached in the bag and drew out what appeared to be... a croissant! Those devils! They were filling innocent-looking chocolate croissants with crystal meth!
I took the "croissant" from Jonah and lifted it to my lips. Then, as he looked into the bag and avidly sought his own "fix," I heaved my croissant at him. He screamed as the molten chocolate ran down his face. I flung open the door, and fled into the night, his cries of, "But you haven't even tried a ham-and-cheese yet!" echoing cruelly in my ears.