Ron leads you through a couple of rooms in the house, the morning (early afternoon?) sunlight giving everything a surreal cast of morning-after, though to your knowledge not much happened last night.
He leads you down a hall to a white door set amidst a white wall. "These guys only just got started a little while ago," he says, as he swings the door open. You wonder what they've started, but your eyes take in the newly revealed dimly-lit room, with lava lamps set on low shelves to cast mellow, ever-changing blobs of light on the walls. There's a TV on the far side from you, and the back of a couch partially obscures your view of the screen, though it looks like some sort of cartoon is playing.
"Hey guys," Ron says softly into the room, "one more here..." there are a couple croaked, muffled "kays" or "heys" or something similarly indistinguishable and flat. As your eyes adjust you notice a silhouette of a head in bas relief against the top half of the television. The head seems to be oh so slowly oscillating back and forth, then a jet of smoke emerges toward the screen, spreading itself across the cartoon.
As Ron ushers you in closer behind the couch, you see something make a conspicuously long arc in front of the TV from the guy who just exhaled to the other side of the couch. It leaves a lazy orange trail in its wake, and you realize they're passing a joint on some weird, long, elaborate roach clip.
"C'mon in," Ron says, and as you step in you realize the room is cozy, not much air flow, and ... it ... smells ...
"Good, huh?" You shake your head slightly -- were you thinking the beginning of that or did Ron just say it? Did he mean the same thing? Was he talking to them or to you?
"Have a seat." Ron gently guides you by the arm around the edge of the couch, and as you come to the other side you see two barefoot guys, legs outstretched, slouched ridiculously low, staring silently transfixed at the television with ... really ... heavy ...
"...eyes..." You blink. Did Ron just say that, or ...
As you sink into the middle of the couch between the two guys, it's like settling into a warm bath. The air around you seems to thicken, buoying you up and making it less and less necessary for you to hold yourself. The guy to your right inclines his head slightly toward you in greeting, his fingers making some sort of sign you don't recognize, but which Ron nods at approvingly. The one on your left is too busy nursing a couple hits off the joint from the foot-long roach clip. You notice for the first time the joint is realllly long, supported by an extra attachment on the clip, but your attention is drawn away from it jarringly by Ron -- "Hey ... bud..." he says, snapping his fingers lightly as if politely reminding you he's there. He's squatting in front of you on the floor.
"This is the Zonk Room," he says, talking like a tour guide in a museum, efficient and to the point, almost rushed. "It's where the guys go when we need a little refresher." He emphasizes the last word strangely, and after a couple seconds' pause with no question from you, he grins and continues. "Settle in for a bit, and ... the point here is ... try not to take a drag when they pass it to you. Just pass it along." He chuckles, and you blink cluelessly at him. He pulls to one side, revealing the television for the first time, and your eyes dilate strangely as they take in the full image ... you can't ... "take your eyes off," he says, "but it'll be OK, I promise. Just a little conditioning to go with your lack of shampoo."
He pats you on the shoulder, and a few seconds later the room gets darker as some light and a soft, amused chuckling from somewhere is closed off.