Cha-chink. Ratchet, ratchet, ratchet, ratchet, ratchet. Plunk-plunk. Ding.

Cha-chink. Ratchet, ratchet, ratchet, ratchet, ratchet. Plunk-plunk. Ding.

The sound! It was on his right side--cha-chink! Then ratchet, ratchet, ratchet, ratchet, ratchet; crossed his brain to the left! And then to the middle where coins plunked into a cash register!

Demon had to look. He whipped his head around, knowing better, but still half expecting to see some mechanical source of the sound. The only thing he saw was his derelict bike.

"Ha! You like that De-man? Fuckin' Dark side of the Moon rocks. Now, let's do some hills!" The Falcon was put into drive. And unlike his tire-spinning departure from the Prospector, the Bird deliberately eased back onto the highway and turned right onto highway 6, a.k.a. fourteen hills road.

4.

For his entire life, Demon's view of the world had been one dimensional. Now, finally, he was getting a glimpse at how other people experienced the world.

Everything had suddenly become two-dimensional.

As they drove toward the promised land of 14 hills road he focused on the music. The sounds touched one ear, the other, then crossed and merged in-between. The thumping cadence of a guitar sounded like (felt like) footsteps trudging across his brain. He could see, imagine, a little man (with heavy shoes) thumping around in his head. The sensation was exquisite.

"Money, it's a crime." The Bird joined the lyrics. "Good, good, good bullshit." He shouted the last word defiantly and laughed at the D-man.

Demon was enthralled by the music. It floated this way and that through his mind. It seemed to match the pace of the Falcon. The ride and the music commingled. He settled into the seat, feeling the cushion of the padding and the smooth drone of the tires.

"Aww man, I should have cleaned the windshield." A lament from the Bird. Demon gradually interpreted the comment but could not think of how to respond. The best he could do was slowly, ever so slowly take in the windshield. He looked at the glass above the dash; then stared directly ahead. What he saw caused him to involuntarily drop his mouth in stunned fantasy.

The road was crawling along in slow motion.

In the dead of night the world glowed with vibrant tones. Reflecting off the headlights, the painted shoulder and center lines looked nearly radiant. They appeared to lift off the surface and create individual channels to drive through. It was like gliding along a plastic open air tunnel. The landscape unfolded before his eyes. Windbreaks of ponderosa pines extended their arms and waved the duo along their way. Majestic wooden telephone poles with double struts acted like roadside sentries. The poles floated by, their grandfatherly wise faces acknowledging the progress of the travelers and approving their passage. "Fuckin A, I loooove a smooth road. You ready for the hills D- man?"

Horizontal music had introduced Demon to the second dimension. Time and space relationships had launched him into the third.

Unable to form an answer he merely breathed: "Woooohhh"

The Bird looked at him appreciably. "You stoned?" He laughed victoriously. "That gold must be really good to get someone off the first time."

It was really good. And as the first hill approached, Bird slowed the Falcon to allow "Money" to segue into "Us and them."

"See that sign up there?" The Bird nodded knowingly toward a lighted billboard about a quarter mile ahead. "If I time it just perfect, the hills and the music match!" The pace of both birds, Falcon and Humming, had slowed appreciably. "And you know what's funny?" He tittered almost girlishly. "That sign" he repeated. "It's a Rexall Drug sign!" He punctuated the word 'drug' and laughed hard, taking no offense at the lack of response from his stoned companion.

The car continued its deceleration, from 60, down to 50, 40 and just under. To Demon it felt like 5 miles per hour. Everything was so slow, so easy, and yes, so very, very smooth.

Bird gauged the approach of the sign with his eyes and the final chords of "Money" with his well-trained ears. "D-man," he teased. "When did we pick up hitchhikers?"

The timing was perfect. Ghostly voices emanated from the back seat, escorting the final chords and sound effects of "Money" to the next track.

This time Demon did not turn to look, the visions in front of him were too captivating. He allowed the voices, and the chink, rattle and plunk, to fade deep into the trunk of the Falcon.

"Money" settled, crossing paths with the dawning of "Us and them," and they passed the drug sign at the optimum rate of 35 miles an hour.

"Nice." It would be the last word contributed by the Bird for the next seven minutes and 15 seconds. To interrupt such a wicked combination as 'Pink Floyd,' 'the hills,' and kick ass Columbian gold would not be cool at all.

5.

They were called 'the hills,' but a more fitting description would be gentle rolling mounds. Approaching the first rise, mystical softness emanated from the speakers and visions of twinkling stars and gently moving planets entered their minds. A low saxophone announced their approach. The notes were slow, assuring, their meaning clear: "I understand. Let me guide the way.'

The sax offered mournful encouragement as the first rise unveiled in ultra slow motion. Soulful wails reminded the riders of the need to move slow, avoid fatigue, relax. A single sharp tone was a hint of warning; possible failure. But then the sax laughed; playfully teasing with a little ditty of notes 'not to worry, all is right, listen to me, feel my music and let it be your friend.'

It was a happy, smiling sound. The car coasted, luxuriating in the easy soulful lullaby.

The foot of hill one.

The Falcon addressed the rise, and as it took to the ascent, the sax gracefully stepped aside. A gentle voice from somewhere beyond the moon took its place. "Us, us, us, us, us, us, us..." the Falcon matched the subtle cadence to the precipice. "and them, them, them, them, them..." softly back down the gentle mound. They leveled at the bottom: "And after all we're only ordinary men."

Demon was awestruck. He was awash in waves of sensory awareness. In his ears: enchanted magic. His eyes beheld a fantasy world of fluid, vivid depth. His mind; the absence of equilibrium. And throughout his body a feeling of total weightlessness.

Just as the Bird had foretold, he was floating: The fourth dimension.

"Up, up, up, up, up, up..." Another perfectly timed crest. "And down, down, down, down, down... And in the end it's only round and round and round"

14 Hills couldn't have been more perfectly designed for side two/track two of Dark Side of the Moon than if the band themselves had driven the route and composed the lyrics on site. Speculative rumors to that effect, all wildly untrue, circulated freely. Their only merit was that they helped to spread the word about the upper Midwest's most notable dope-smokers attraction.

Demon and the Bird sat motionless as they rode the slow motion roller coaster over a dozen ululating hills. Each ascent, summit and descent synchronized to the soothing rise and ebb of the music, and whispered echoing lyrics.

At hill 13, the Bird knew his synchronization would be off. No sweat, nobody ever nailed hills 13 and 14, and those who said they did were either full of shit or had hit the gas hard and spoiled the effect. Fuck 'em.

"Down, down, down, down, down..." The Falcon was rolling evenly on level ground. "And out, out, out, out, out... It can't be helped but there's a lot of it about."

See? Fuck em. It can't be helped. It's best just to cruise at the same speed and make 13 the final hill. They were upon it now.

"With, with, with, with, with..." Nailed it. "With-out, out, out, out, out... And who'll deny it's what the fighting's all about?

The music played on, the Bird maintaining his pace and then slowly raising his right fist in a gesture of victory. A musical crescendo rewarded his salute: "Out of the way, it's a busy day

I've got things on my mind.

For the want of the price, of tea and a slice

The old man died."

The 8 track faded, and went silent. "Whoa, fuckin A De-man." The words were deliberate; respectful. "That is some totally kick-ass shit."

Demon was speechless. He had always been a man of few words. More accurately, in conversation, he was a man of no words. And at this moment, it was all about feeling. This was how everyone else experienced the world, what he had been missing. This was what it was like to feel happy. For his many youthful years he had been on the outside, not even recognizing that there could be such fantastical magic, that the world held such vibrancy, such color, sound, depth.

The hills and the music, they had...they had connected. He had floated, was still floating. The world had slowed down, way, way down so that he could take a look, and see it as it was supposed to be seen. At least, now, he could start to understand.

As Demon swam in his personal reflections, the Bird talked for both of them. He mentioned that there was a turnaround spot on the top of 14. He wasn't too thrilled about using it since some kids got busted there after the landowner started bitching, but he had to piss like a racehorse and they would have to take their chances.

The resumption of flat Minnesota wheat fields to the east tempered the slope of 14. It wasn't the smallest of the series but it was certainly qualified as one of the bottom two. At the top, the Falcon took to the shoulder. Demon startled at the sudden sensation, then recognizing it, savored his new found perception. He noticed the gravel, could feel every nugget and bump, could hear the rumbling beneath the tires. Before tonight, it had always been an object, a name, gravel.

"I think we're good De-man" the Bird had pulled to a stop and was gripping the door handle. "There aren't any lights ahead of us and I didn't see any in the rear view mirror. But those hills you know." He left the issue hanging, crawled out the door and left it hanging too.

Demon took the cue that he should also get out and piss. He brought his right hand to the door and groped. He couldn't find the handle. His eyes and hands were less than two feet apart, yet his mind was in a completely different zip code.

Earlier he had found it easily when he had open the door for air. Now, it evaded him.

He leaned forward with both hands, sliding them along the face of the panel and then stumbled upon the lever. The action of the mechanism puzzled him. Pull up? No. Push down? No. Pull up again? Still no.

"You gonna piss or hold it until your teeth are swimming De-man?" The Bird called while he leaked in the wheel well.

"I-I can't...." To his own ears the two words and one stutter came out eerily and conspicuously. He fumbled for the verb and predicate.

"You can't piss? You would have to be really fucked up if you couldn't piss."

"I can't open (that was the key word, the rest came easier) the door."

"Oh!" The Bird twittered in recognition. "Lemme just shake off 'n then I'll get it from that side."

The act of forming words had clarified a fraction of his pot-induced brain. He fingered the handle and tested it by pulling inward. There was a slight give. Cautiously he pulled harder, releasing the mechanism and allowing the door to swing free.

"Ha, you got it." The Bird had rounded the right fender. "Piss away my man. I'll find us some new tunes." The Bird retreated to his side respecting the privacy of Demon's drainage.

The natural process of standing was anything but. Demon had to think through each motion, first planting one leg on the ground, then swinging his left to follow. He found handhold on the Falcon's doorframe and stood.

He dared three steps into the weeds. His body moving like a robot in strobe. Undoing his pants and fly was the easy part, a procedure so engrained he could still be doing it long after he was dead. He held his penis in his hand and waited for the urine flow.

As he stood on the top of hill 14 Demon took in his surroundings. Far to the southwest was a fairyland of lights. Mostly arc sodium white, but several rust, amber and a few greens and blues. The lights enthralled him. He stood stoic, concentrating, and the mass of lights began to gently rotate; a cosmic skyscape of color.

More.

He redirected his gaze slowly, oh so slowly to the left. An abandoned farmhouse and sagging barn lay just below the swell of the hill. The paintless buildings had been ravaged by the natural elements, rock throwing hoodlums, and every manner of critter in need of nesting ground. Far off in the distance was a transmission tower. Three double sets of red lights measured its growth while a throbbing red beacon pulsed lazily a few times each minute to announce its height.

Demon stared at the scene and the tower and farmhouse became one. The menacing tower admonishing the pathetic farm for its failure, and warning others that if you too should fail, I will haunt you with my pulsing red eye.

And then there was the sky. Demon sucked in breath as he lifted his head and absorbed the cosmos. He had looked at the sky a thousand times before, but had never seen the vastness. Galaxies of stars swirled above him. He imagined the world being under a blackened dome. The stars actually pinpricks of light from the mysterious far side. Moonless, they radiated like diamonds. He was looking at heav--- (You don't want to go there!) A long forgotten memory shook him from his reverie. He felt a sharp pain, a body memory, in his anus. The experience drove him to self awareness. He looked down and realized that he had yet to pee. He had been standing out here with his dick in his hand for how long, five minutes? Ten minutes? Three hours? He just couldn't tell.

"Hey de-man, you takin' the world's longest piss or did you have to take a shit too? I hope not because the only ass-wipe I've got is last week's pay stub from the prospect-hole."

Demon felt immediately conspicuous. He had been spacing off, standing with his dick in his hand, not peeing, just standing, and then there had been that sudden, strange scary thought and odd pain in his behind. He buckled his pants, not having the need to pee in the first place, more just participating in the social function, and moved back to the car.

"Doing a little spacing out?" It was more statement than question. His response came easy.

"Woooohhh..."

"Ha ha, I told you man!" The Bird was delighted and repeated for about the 20 time. "That gold is some kick-ass shit!"

He fired up the Falcon and, rather than revisit the hills, continued east on 6. "The hills just ain't the same going back, plus 34 is one bumpy piece of shit. 91is just a few miles up; it's smooth and angles back toward town."

The Bird lit a grit and offered the pack to Demon. This time he declined. Not because he didn't want one, but because he didn't think he could control that herky-jerky robot in a strobe light sensation while guiding a smoke to his lips.

"I got me the new Kansas De-man." He held up the 8 track proudly. "I been listening to it a lot but can't help myself." He grinned at his passenger as if the forbidden practice of overplaying a new album was common knowledge. "You dig Kansas De-man?"

"Don't know..." Honest and infantile.

"Oh man, then we got to, we just go to!"

Pink Floyd had been extracted while Demon had been outside peeing. Or not peeing if you want to be completely accurate about it. And now "Leftoverture" was inserted into the gap.

The cacophony was instantaneous. Organs, drums, violins and guitars were waging a frantic battle for supremacy. "Whoa, sorry. Didn't have that one cued up." The Bird mercifully cut the volume by half and then clicked to the middle of the next track where wistful "Cheyenne Anthem" was rolling easily. He enhanced the volume by two clicks of the attenuators and for the next 90 seconds they listened to the final chords of the serene ballad of our red-skinned brothers.

As Cheyenne anthem faded, the Bird disengaged the tape from the console. "I want to wait for the turn."

Demon understood. Just like the Bird had timed out the 'Lloyd?' 'Pink Moon?' music to match the road ahead, he was doing the same with this one. The awareness that he understood another person's intent without having to have it explained to him was inwardly gratifying.

As they drove quietly toward the turnoff Demon worried his fuzzy brain into prompting his gummy tongue. The three syllables formed, he turned toward the Bird. "I like it."

The Bird chided: "you ain't heard nothing yet, wait 'til we get to the turn."

"No" Demon restarted. "I like it..." But could not finish.

"What? Pink Floyd? 14 hills road? Shoving your cucumber into Rosie's prospect-hole?"

"Pot! It flew out of him like a cork from a champagne bottle. "I like pot. Mother A Fucking love pot!"