The purveyors of consciousness expanding LIED! They told you to TUNE IN, TURN ON, DROP OUT - but they did not qualify this statement. Dropping out from what to where to what again. Dropping from sanity to madness, to bad breath, the horrible cheap tab. ACID SHOTTAS is the aftermath. It is the mid-80s. Heavy Metal is rife. It's pre-MDMA. Tacky, inexpensive acid is on the streets. This is the decade of hate. Cold War. Reaganomics. This is the aftermath. Wolf-shot words written to Dancehall and Acid House. Window Panes, Sugar, Mind Detergent, Microdots, Weddings Bells, Orange Cubes, Hits, Barrels, Tabs, Blotters, Heavenly Blue, Sugar Lumps, Sunshine, Tickets, Twenty Fives, Liquid and Liquid A. All different names for Acid ... LSD. and then there is Thenailomen. This is Samuel Cowley's plunge into madness / mysticism / dancehall and acid. An indistinguishable situation of controlling Cohorts and bubbling psychosis. Apparitions flickering across Samuel's mind. Most of the women hold their Spanish Brandy breath. They do not move. This novel couches literature into counterrevolutionary measures. The essence of the mentally anguished individual stands up for what it is, pitiable. Greetings folks! You'll be approached and watched as you slip your tongue into the Thenailomen. The Nail of Men. Arterial connections. The detective agency shrills, shattering the late afternoon. Silences. Huge creatures stand, bunched like big come-ons. This horrible drug racket. Toy-like like the other sea scum. Fifth Avenue executives. Complex organisms. A yarn chain of parked cars. There's the door to the hospital. Jittery girls moving in to embrace. Blunt jaws. A boatman comes ashore. The girl's arms about me, mashing herself against my face, addicted to Thenailomen. Her shoulder. Stumbling among short minutes. The Shoe Co-op around 10am. You are not too caring... This is Vietnam...