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While Sam milled about in the bushes, looking for the vial of coke, Frodo slipped the ring on again. And closed his eyes. He hoped it worked. He was sick of being burned. After all, Bilbo was his uncle, but he was not above burning a nephew. Once Bilbo had sold him a bag of doctored Ent leaves, claiming it was Tookish Gold. Frodo had coughed for a week trying to get the shit out of his system, not to mention his pipe. The ring itself had come from Gollum, another meth head and all-around freak. Who knew what Gollum's trip was, only that it was bad. Any doubts and all you had to do was look at the poor bastard. In his head, Frodo rolled an instant fantasy: The Eye was looking at him again. Calling him. In his hand, Sting had grown fifty-feet tall, but for some reason, it still weighed the same. It shone bright white, like when you're sterilizing a buddy's needle. Frodo flashed on this and drove Sting deep into the darkness of the pupil.
And then something strange happened. The ring made him invisible to others. Maybe even to himself. But when he drove that hallucination into that other hallucination, the ring was somehow weakened. He saw Sam. And Sam saw him. Impossible, he thought, but Sam stared.
Sam saw a vague blur staring back at him, looking like a Hobbit. He was Everyhobbit and in every combination. Unsure of what to do, Sam shrugged and continued with what he was doing. Earlier, he had prepared a Rivendell hit. That's when you snort the coke off the Lembas, inhaling some of the Elvish crumbs as well. Not knowing what to do about Frodo, Gandalf, the Ring, or the bummed-out fellowship, which was now more of a loose affiliation of dopers than an actual fellowship, Sam bumped the hit and fell to his knees, joining Frodo in the murk.