Loomis rolled over and wiped gravel off his face. Slick. That Craig and his homies were puffin’ the blunt and fist bumpin’ as they faded from Loomis’ view — AGAIN! This time it was for real, but the “Mercy Day” riff was just a sham to throw Loomis of his usual awareness game.
Now the dratted COCKROACH BUZZING swam loud, louder, LOUDEST in Loomis’ ears. Now some sireen noise. Loomis blacked out. He felt an ungodly swaying. He retched. Blur, more blur, then BUZZING again.
Cockroaches? No, now it’s a big fluorescent light. Loomis is strapped to a gurney.
He tried getting up. Strapped down. No use. Loomis espied a glycerine-rimmed vision of an old wicker wheelchair. A gaunt African American with a puffy wig and star-shaped shades over his eyes — “Wot!! Voices cry out- “Give him a sedative!! Thorazine shot”
At’s JAMES BOOKER! Cool Pianna playah!! But he DIED back in Seventy-Eight! Doctor John told me so.”
Disembodied from reality. Loomis, zoning out, groans, “The ghost of Booker, I’m telling you..”
(TO BE CONTINUED)