Gary had never tried drugs before that night. Hell, he'd never even had a drink.

Then, at the office party, it happened.

Unknowingly, Gary had had a glass of punch with a slight spike of vodka in it. The alcohol, devious in its design, impaired his judgment before he had any idea what was happening to him. It started with an off-color joke about nuns and hairdryers. After another glass, he found himself laughing at an episode of Family Guy playing on a TV in the background. The horror embraced him, a terrifying liberation from Christian morals.

One glass after another pulled Gary further into the abyss. He found himself constructively criticizing the sales techniques of a coworker. Even worse, he used the D-word after bumping his knee on a coffee table. The hooks of substance abuse dug deep into his soul, and it numbed him to the feelings of others. He even called his friend's GMC Yukon a "poorly designed, ergonomically displeasing monstrosity." Friends, coworkers, the honor of the American auto industry; none were safe from his barbed and somewhat hurtful words.

After leaving the party, Gary walked into a gas station. His words were clear and precise, but the alcohol still flowed through his veins and poisoned his mind. In a moment of weakness, he spoke the words that would escalate his decent into madness- "Pack of Camel Filters, please."

Smoke filled his lungs as he sat in his Grand Cherokee. Dangerous thoughts were granted an audience, due only to his impairment.

"Do I dare," he asked himself, "Do I dare ask Linda to push the beds together tonight, even though we have no plan to conceive a child?"

As he entertained that mad notion, he heard a knock on his window. A tall, thin man stood nervously outside his truck. Without hesitation, caught in the moment, Gary rolled down the glass.

"Hey, man," the stranger said, "Wanna buy some cocaine, heroin, weed, whiskey, and stolen nun-chucks?"

Intrigued by the offer, Gary considered the proposal. It was tempting. However, in his immoral mindset, he soon came upon a better means of procuring such illicit materials. It would not cost a dime.

Gary, freed from morality by nicotine and alcohol, reached slowly for the tire iron he kept in the passenger seat for some reason. His fingers closed tightly around the cold metal. He anticipated the kill with childlike glee. Then, with a swing, the stranger fell.

His heart pumped blood at a furious pace. "Did I just do that?" he asked himself. His mind raced, and he felt more alive than he had in years. Much more alive than his now deceased friend, at the very least.

After removing the man's skull and stealing his stuff, Gary found a rundown hotel outside the city limits. He paid for the room with his victim's credit card, and- seeing the suspicious expression on the clerk's face- made a note to murder him later, in order to fully cover his tracks. He opened the decaying door to his room, plopped down on the floor, and prepared to enjoy the spoils of his newly-found criminal lifestyle.

He did the cocaine. His mind exploded with creativity. He did the weed, and it eased the harsh edges of intoxication. He drank the whiskey, and started to feel sick. Then, he reached for the last of the demonic medicine- the heroin. He reduced it to a liquid, sucked it into the syringe, and prepared to introduce it to his bloodstream. He touched the needle to his skin, ready for the slight sting that would make him feel good again.

Nothing. The needle was in, alright, but the sting never came. He turned, sensing the presence of another life, and saw the ghost of Dave Grohl snaking the heroin. His heroin. Gary would not tolerate such a bold act of larceny.

"Fuck you, ghost of Dave Grohl," Gary screamed.

"I'm not Dave Grohl," the ghost said in a serene tone. "I'm you."

Gary rubbed his eyes, and realized the truth. Nothing but empty air was in front of him. The ghost was never there. It was all a fabrication of his drug-addled mind.

"I'm losing it," Gary thought. "This has certainly been a strange night."

Just then, the real Dave Grohl burst into the room and hit him over the head with part of his drum kit. Gary crumpled to the floor, unconscious.

"Dave Grohl, motherfucker. And don't you fucking forget it!"

Dave Grohl recovered his nun-chucks, a treasured gift from Krist Novoselic, and ran off into the night.

Don't Do Drugs.