So I go to this weird avant garde performance art place that also happens to be the place where the artists involved live-- they use their own house for these very messy, chaotic, SRL-like shows, except that's not such a big deal because they don't live in a house-house, they live in a huge underground cavern made from abandoned sewer connections. Access, is primarily via sewers and service tunnels.
After I see a show there, I bump into John Hall (lyricist/vocalist for King Missile) and ask him to autograph a CD I happened to be carrying around. But he says "Hey, why not come eat with us?" so I hop in his big ol' beat up Econoline van and we pull out of the underground cavern into a subterranean automobile tunnel (looked like Macarthur tunnel in San Fran). But something's up with John, he drifts back and forth across lanes and we end up going into the oncoming lane. And before I can shout a warning, we hit a dark green Pontiac sedan head- on. CRASH. I am flying through the air, having gone through the front window (and I'm thinking, "I put on my seatbelt, though. Didn't I? Didn't I?"). But I land with a fairly good roll and only get a little bit scraped up, amazingly. I look back and John's piling out of his van-- he's okay, too. But the sedan is all crushed up. And for a couple of minutes he and I are making sure we're not hurt, when it occurs to us that the driver of the sedan hasn't moved.
So I open the driver-side door and go into an instant panic. The driver of the sedan is very VERY dead; his head flew forward and struck the steering wheel and basically popped all over the place. It looks like he was shot in the brain, there's so much mess in there. And I'm looking around for a phone going "Oh God, we need to get an ambulance for him" even though I know he's already going cold, and John's sitting there getting ideas for a new morbid song or something, he's just contemplating the wreckage, and already I can hear approaching sirens in the distance....