The tunnel was covered in porcelain tile, reminiscent of New York City’s older subway stations. The wall on our right glowed red with reflected taillights, and the wall on our left glowed white with reflected headlights, as the low roar of engines reverberated loudly between them, creating an audiovisual onslaught that found traction on the one-way street of my withdrawal. Not one to waste an opportunity, my vandal once again started pushing buttons and crossing wires inside my head, and suddenly we were driving between giant sleeping snakes with neon scales. We had to drive as quietly as we could so as not to disturb them, but the red one was closer, and it started glowing brighter, which meant it was waking up. If it succeeded in waking up, then we’d surely be arrested at the border, so I reached down and squeezed my testicles as hard as I could—a maneuver that never failed to neutralize the irrational thoughts preceding my panic attacks. Incidentally, it also delayed orgasms when orgasms needed delaying (TH).