I buy the acid. The Purple Haze feels so small and incidental. I hold it between my fingers, feeling how small it is, as I try to get up the courage to try some. I break off about a third of the tablet and swallow it with a gulp of water. I wait about ten minutes, but, to my disappointment, I feel nothing. I think, “Art cheated me.” Then I remember Art said it was a two-man tab and I have only consumed a third of it. I figure I need a little more, but, as I break off a corner of the remainder, it crumbles in my hand. “Oh, no!” I curse. What now? I paid three bucks for this acid.” I wonder, “How could something so small be so dangerous? How could taking the rest hurt me?” So I reluctantly pop the rest into my mouth and swallow it down, wondering, “Can it really be as bad as they depict in those scare films?”