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Mezcal In DeKalb, Illinois

By Scott Bowers

From the home of Northern Illinois University

They say that when you eat the worm, you see visions. There it was. Motionless, it floated about the bottom of a bottle of mezcal. I had never eaten a bug on purpose before. The first swig went down smoothly for the most part. By the third swig, however, the rank taste of mezcal combined with the beers I had earlier to form an acute case of 7-11 Parking Lot Yaack. Alas, I could drink it no more. The worm lay, mocking my plight, on the bottom of the bottle.

"...must...eat...worm...," I thought as I tried to take another drink. I put the bottle near my lips. The smell reached beyond my nose and yanked strongly on the chicken dinner remnants still in my stomach. I coughed. I gagged. My hand was shaking. My friends were rolling on the ground. And then...

The worm turned. With one swift tilt of the bottle, the remaining liquor washed the worm down. I had become a bugeater.

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