Harvey had first come to Scaggsville in 1946 or 47. He was no longer sure which. He had been on hallucinogens pretty much continuously since he came back from France, and that whole period of his life was blurrier, dimmer, and more filled with talking, blue pixies than he would have liked. The town had been quiet then, but the Scaggsville of 1962 was a different place entirely. Lobsters and their human girlfriends strolled the streets, hopping from one jazz club to the next, and a web of suspended monorail lines zipped with traffic overhead. A Lobster air car roared past him at a low altitude, its passengers cheerfully dropping stun bombs on the hapless crowds below. Harvey decided to leave Scaggsville and go back to New York, where the mushrooms were fresher.