Fear and Loathing in Yemen (Uncharted 3: Drake’s Deception)
Smog on every tent, draped over every robed shoulder, dripping like gravy from the vendors’ displays. His head hurts. Groggy. Stumbling drunk. Floppy feet. Undulating strangers, ballooning and deflating, wobbling like weighted buoys. Lava lamp labyrinth. Slug forward, evade grasp. Touch the walls. The walls feel safe. Cold. Wet. Real. A rattrap. A sense of being led by the nose. An intangible leash. Choking. What was that? Are they staring at him? Do they know? A voice in his head. Is it his? What is this “Drake?” Can sounds be names, and what do names mean? He can handle this. He handles this. If he keeps moving through the crowd, through the market, under archways, everything will work out.
Like those mushrooms he and Sully took in Ecuador. Booze helped then. But isn’t Yemen a dry country? The horror. Unnamable horrors. Fishbowl vision. Stagger. He fumbles forward again. Then like a great mouth, the light takes him.
