Wait a second here, if you remember correctly, some of the characters (PEOPLE, you mean people) on this camping trip have to get drunk or high. Then again, was that so it's easier to impress the chicks, or because it's easier for the killer to get you? Damn it, why does life have to be so complicated? And the guys are long gone now. You've been out-pussied. What are you, an extra?

"Give me that pouch!" you gruffly tell Squatting Fox.

"You pay up front, white boy." he replies.

"Well, how much is it?"

"How much you got, hm?"

Hold it, Wormser. You recall this as being an old Indian mind-trick. Well, this weirdo isn't going to get the better of you...

"ALL of it." you reply promptly, and give him your wallet. Squatting Fox furrows his brow, affirming you that you just beat his flawless system, and sticks it in his pocket.

"OK, very stupid white man. Here you go." he finally says, and hands over the pouch. "Don't spend it all in one place, hmm?"

"I'LL be the judge of that, chief." you say smugly, greedily snatching the little brown bag. Just to drive the point home, you tilt your head back and shake the contents of the pouch directly down your throat.

"Um. You're supposed to smoke it - " Squatting Fox tries, but it's too late.

You clutch your face and scream and scream and SCREAM, kicking your legs and starting to bleed from your rectum, as the 'herbs' kick in. Boy, Squatting Fox wasn't kidding. The powers of the pouch bury your consciousness under a layer of all your childhood fears and anxieties times ten. As your body runs itself through the forest in a blind race that's going to undoubtedly meet a violent end against the nearest tree, you wonder if this could be the shittiest vision quest ever. Unless this is all supposed to be a valuable life lesson, in which case: you hate yourself and you're a pussy.

START OVER YOU GODDAMNED TRIPPY HIPPIE FREAK!