Frito guardedly told him that they were on their way to Whee, but had become lost. "Can you tell us how to find our way there?"

"Oh wow, oh sure," laughed Tim, "thad's easy. But led's split to my pad firz, I wan' yoo meet my chick. She name Hashberry."

The boggies agreed, for their stores of potato salad were gone. Gathering their packs, they curiously followed after the wildly zigzagging Benzedrine, who occasionally halted to rap with a likely looking rock or stump, giving them time to catch up. As they circled through the menacing trees aimlessly, Tim Benzedrine's throat croaked merrily:

"O slender as a speeding freak! Spaced-out groovy tripper!
O mush-brained maid whose mind decays with every pill I slip her!
O mind-blown fair farina-head, friend of birds and beetles!
O skinny wraith whose fingernails are hypodermic needles!
O tangled locks and painted bod! Pupils big as eggs!
O flower-maid who never bathes or even shaves her legs!
O softened mind that wanders wherever moon above leads!
O how I dig thee, Hashberry, from nose to sleazy lovebeads!"

A few moments later they broke into a clearing on a low hill. There was a ramshackle hovel shaped like a rubber boot with a little chimney that emitted a thick fog of sick-looking green smoke.

"Oh wow," squeaked Tim, "she's home!" Led by Tim, the company approached the unprepossessing little hut. A flashing white light blinked from its only window, at the top. As they stepped over the threshold, littered with cigarette papers, broken pipes, and burnt-out brain cells, Tim called:

"I've brought four with me to crash,
So now's the time to pass the stash."

From the smoky depths an answering voice returned:

"Then celebrate and take a toke,
To make us giggle, gag and choke!"

At first Frito saw nothing amid the iridescent wallpaper and strobe candles but what appeared to be a heap of filthy cleaning rags. But then the pile spoke again:

"Hither come and suck a pipe,
Turn thy brains to cheese and tripe!"

And then, as the boggies squinted their smarting eyes, the heap stirred and sat up revealing itself to be an incredibly emaciated, hollow-eyed female. She looked at them for a second, muttered, "Like wow," and fell forward in a catatonic stupor with a rattle of beads.

"Doan' let Hash bug yoo," said Tim. "Tuesday is her day to crash."

Somewhat bewildered by the acrid fumes and the flashing candles, the boggies sat crosslegged on a grimy mattress and asked politely for some grub, as they had journeyed far and were about to devour the ticking.

"Eats?" chuckled Tim, rummaging through a handmade leather pouch. "Jes' hang loose an' I'll fimb somp'un f'yoo. Lemmesee, oh, oh wow! Dint know we had any this left!" Clumsily he scooped out the contents and set them in a bent hubcap before them. They were among the most dubious-looking mushrooms Spam had ever seen, and, rather rudely, he said so.

"These are among the most dubious-lookin' mushrooms I'm ever a-seeing," he stated.

Nevertheless there were few things in Lower Middle Earth Spam hadn't idly nibbled and lived to tell about, so he dived in, stuffing himself loudly. They were of an odd color and odor, but they tasted okay, if a little on the moldy side, and after that the boggies were offered round candies with little letters cleverly printed on them. ("They melt in yoor brain, not in your hans," giggled Tim.)

Bloated to critical mass, the contented boggies relaxed as Hashberry played a melody on something that looked like a pregnant handloom. Mellowed by the repast, Sam was particularly pleased when Tim offered him some of his "own speshul mix" for his nose-pipe. An odd flavor, thought Spam, but nice.

"Yoo got about ha'f an hour," said Tim. "Wanna rap?"

"Rap?" said Spam.

"Yoo know, like . . . talk wif your mouf," replied Tim as he lit his own pipe, a large converted milk separator laden with valves and dials. "Yoo here 'cause th' heat's on?"

"In a manner of speaking," said Frito judiciously. "We've got this here Ring of Power and--oops!" Frito caught himself, but too late; he could not unsay it now.

"Oh groovy!" said Tim. "Lemme see."

Reluctantly, Frito handed over the Ring.

"Pretty cheap stuff," said Tim, tossing it back. "Even th' junk I pawn off on th' dwarbs is bedder."

"You sell rings?" asked Moxie.

"Sure," said Tim. "I gotta sandal-and-magic-charm shop for th' tourist season. Keeps me in stash for winter months, y'know whad I mean?"

"There might not be many of us left to visit the woods," said Frito quietly, "if Sorhed's plans are not foiled. Will you join us?"

Tim shook his hair. "Now doan' bug me, man. I'm a conscienshul objectioner . . . doan' wan' no more war. Came here to dodge draff, see? If some cat wants to kick th' stuffing outta me, I say, 'Groovy,' an' I give 'em flower an' love-beads. 'Love,' I say t' him. 'No more war,' I say. Anyway, I four-F!"

"No more guts!" growled Spam under his breath to Moxie.

"No, I god guts," said Tim, pointing to his temple, "no more braims!"

Frito smiled diplomatically, but was suddenly stricken by a severe stomachache. His eyes began to roll and he felt very light-headed. Probably a touch of the banshee two-step, he thought as his ears started to ring like a dwarf's cash-register. His tongue felt thick, and his tail began to vibrate. Turning to Spam, he wished to ask him if he felt it too.

"Argle-bargle morble whoosh?" said Frito.

But it did not matter, for he saw that Spam had oddly taken it into his head to change himself into a large, pink dragon wearing a three-piece suit and a straw boater.

"What did you be sayin', Master Frito?" asked the natty lizard with Spam's voice.

"Ffluger fribble golorful frooble," said Frito dreamily, thinking it strange that Spam was wearing a boater in late autumn. Glancing at the twins, Frito noted that they had changed into matching candy-striped coffeepots perking away like mad.

"Don't feel too well," said one.

"Feel sick," clarified the other.

Tim, now a rather handsome six-foot carrot, laughed loudly and changed into a coiled parking meter. Frito, dizzy as a great wave of oatmeal flowed through his brain, grew heedless of the puddle of drool collecting in his lap. There was a noiseless explosion between his ears and he watched with terror as the room began stretching and pulsating like Silly Putty in heat. Frito's ears began to grow and his arms changed into badminton rackets. The floor developed holes out of which poured fanged peanut brittle. A score of polkadotted cockroaches danced a buck-and-wing on his stomach. A Swiss cheese waltzed him twice around the room, and his nose fell off. Frito opened his mouth to speak and a flock of flying earthworms escaped. His gall bladder sang an aria and did a little tap dance on his appendix. He began to lose consciousness, but before it ebbed completely, he heard a six-foot waffle iron giggle, "If yoo dig it now, jes' wade till th' rush hits you!"

O slender as a speeding freak!