\
  The most prestigious law school admissions discussion board in the world.
BackRefresh Options Favorite

Fear and Loathing in Elko

Special Advisory From the Sports Desk To: HST From: Raou...
Twisted Address
  07/28/14
And that's about it for now, Jann. Christmas is on us and i...
Twisted Address
  07/28/14
...
Twisted Address
  08/09/14


Poast new message in this thread



Reply Favorite

Date: July 28th, 2014 12:40 AM
Author: Twisted Address

Special Advisory From the Sports Desk

To: HST

From: Raoul Duke, Ed.

I need your help, Doc. They're trying to bust me on Sex charges. The

snake has come out of the bag, and soon they'll be after you. Your

phone will be ringing all night with obscene calls from Radical

Lesbian Separatists.

You know how I feel about Victims, Doc, and also how I worship the

First Amendment -- along with the Fourth, of course....

And all of the others, including our God-given Right to praise the

President when he pulls off a Great Victory and rips the nuts off the

Enemy. It was wonderful, Doc. We beat them like shit-eating dogs. They

came, they failed, and now we will gnaw on their skulls. When the

going gets tough, the tough get going, eh? Right! Fuck those people!

Death to the Weird! We will march on a road of bones! Sieg Heil!

(Whoops. Strike that.) What I meant to say was Hot Damn! We're back

in the Saddle again! And I don't mean maybe....Right. You know me,

Doc. I'm a gracious Loser -- but when I win, I must Kick Ass!

That is the Law of Nature: Life is a brainless struggle, and "the

Meek" will jabber and die like brain-damaged rats in a maze, long

before they will ever have time to even think about inheriting the

goddamn Earth -- much less the White House.

No. don't worry about that, Doc. The Nigger is on the run all over

the World, and we want to keep him that way. (Or "her" or "it" or

"them" if you what I'm saying....) They are not necessarily Black,

Doc, and many are not of our Gender....

But so what? They are Niggers, and we're Not! Hell, yes! That's

what it comes down to. They were Fools! It was like the Charge of the

Light Brigade. They rode into the Valley of Death, and We stomped

them....They were Wrong from the start, but they fooled a lot of

people, for a while....

Thank God we got off that stinking Death Ship while we still had the

chance, eh?....They screeched like Hyenas for a while, but then they

ran like Rats. Shit on them. That's what I say. Those bitches got

their tits caught in a wringer.

Okay. Congress is a sinkhole of Whores. We all know that. Shit.

Sexual Harassment is what Congress is all about. It was the Way of Our

Forefathers, and it is Right!

Hot damn: I feel good about Myself today, Doc. I feel innocent for a

change.... and I guess you feel the Same Way, eh?

Jesus. They had us on the run there, for a few days. The Fat Lady

was ready to sing, and I was starting to guilty about almost

Everything.... Especially touching Women -- or even myself, for a

while. It was Horrible. It got so I was afraid to ride the same

elevator with a woman. It was too risky. What if she was one of these

crazy New Age bitches that want to kick you in the nuts and then get

you busted for "fondling" them?

What kind of life would it be if you went to jail or got ruined

every time you tried to flirt with a pretty woman? Let's face it, Doc.

We are all Rapists, one way or another. The trick is not to get Busted

for it....Which is almost what happened, Doc. BUT IT DIDN'T No! We

were NOT Guilty! They called us bullies and Mashers, but we were only

falling in Love....

--Raoul Duke, Sports

[Part II] Fear and Loathing in Elko: Bad Craziness in Sheep

Country....Side Entrance on Queer Street....O Black, O Wild, O

Darkness, Roll Over Me Tonight

It was just after midnight when I first saw the sheep. I was running

about eighty-eight or ninety miles an hour in a drenching, blinding

rain on U.S. 40 between Winnemucca and Elko with one light out. I was

soaking wet from the water that was pouring in through a hole in the

front roof of the car, and my fingers were like rotten icicles on the

steering wheel.

It was a moonless night and I knew I was hydroplaning, which is

dangerous.... My front tires were no longer in touch with the asphalt

or anything else. My center of gravity was too high. There was no

visibility on the road, none at all. I could have tossed a flat rock a

lot farther than I could see in front of me that night though the rain

and the ground fog.

So what? I though. I know this road -- a straight lonely run across

nowhere, with not many dots on the map except ghost towns and truck

stops with names like Beowawe and Lovelock and Deeth and

Winnemucca....

Jesus! Who made this map? Only a lunatic could have come up with a

list of places like this: Imlay, Valmy, Golconda, Nixon, Midas,

Metropolis, Jiggs, Judasville -- all of them empty, with no gas

stations, withering away in the desert like a string of old Pony

Express stations. The Federal Government owns ninety percent of this

land, and most of it is useless for anything except weapons testing

and poison-gas experiments.

My plan was to keep moving. Never slow down. Keep the car aimed

straight ahead through the rain like a cruise missile....I felt

comfortable. There is a sense of calm and security that comes with

driving a very fast car on an empty road at night....Fuck this

thunderstorm, I thought. There is safety in speed. Nothing can touch

me as long as I keep moving fast, and never mind the cops: They're all

hunkered down in a truck stop or jacking off by themselves in a

culvert behind some dynamite shack in the wilderness beyond the

highway....Either way, they wanted no part of me, and I wanted no part

of them. Only trouble could come of it. They were probably nice

people, and so was I -- but we were not meant for each other. History

had long since determined that. There is a huge body of evidence to

support the notion that me and the police were put on this earth to do

extremely different things and never to mingle professionally with

each other, except at official functions, when we all wear ties and

drink heavily and whoop it up like the natural, good-humored wild boys

that we know in our hearts that we are..These occasions are rare, but

they happen -- despite the forked tongue of fate that has put us

forever on different paths....But what the hell? I can handle a wild

birthday party with cops, now and then. Or some unexpected orgy at a

gun show in Texas. Why not? Hell, I ran for Sheriff one time, and

almost got elected. They understand this, and I get along fine with

the smart ones.

But not tonight, I thought, I sped along in the darkness. Not at 100

miles an hour at midnight on a rain-slicked road in Nevada. Nobody

needs to get involved in a high-speed chase on a filthy night like

this. It would be dumb and extremely dangerous. Nobody driving a red

454 V-8 Chevrolet convertible was likely to pull over and surrender

peacefully at the first sight of a cop car behind him. All kinds of

weird shit might happen, from a gunfight with dope fiends to permanent

injury or death....It was a good night to stay indoors and be warm,

make a fresh pot of coffee and catch up on important paperwork. Lay

low and ignore these loonies. Anybody behind the wheel of a ca tonight

was far too crazy to fuck with, anyway.

Which was probably true. There was nobody on the road except me and

a few big-rig Peterbilts running west to Reno and Sacramento by dawn.

I could hear them on my nine-band Super-Scan shortwave/CB/Police

radio, which erupted now and then with outbursts of brainless speed

gibberish about Big Money and Hot Crank and teenage cunts with huge

tits.

They were dangerous Speed Freaks, driving twenty-ton trucks that

might cut loose and jackknife at any moment, utterly out of control.

There is nothing more terrifying than suddenly meeting a jackknifed

Peterbilt with no brakes coming at you sideways at sixty or seventy

miles per hour on a steep mountain road at three o'clock in the

morning. There is a total understanding, all at once, of how the

captain of the Titanic must have felt when he first saw the Iceberg.

And not much different from the hideous feeling that gripped me when

the beam of my Long-Reach Super-Halogen headlights picked up what

appeared to be a massive rock slide across the highway -- right in

front of me, blocking the road completely. Big white rocks and round

boulders, looming up with no warning in a fog of rising steam or swamp

gas....

The brakes were useless, the car wandering. The rear end was coming

around. I jammed it down into Low, but it made no difference, so I

straightened it out and braced for a serious impact, a crash that

would probably kill me. This is It, I thought. This is how it happens

-- slamming into a pile of rocks at 100 miles an hour, a sudden brutal

death in a fast red car on a moonless night in a rainstorm somewhere

on the sleazy outskirts of Elko. I felt vaguely embarrassed, in that

long pure instant before I went into the rocks. I remembered Los Lobos

and that I wanted to call Maria when I got to Elko....

My heart was full of joy as I took the first hit, which was oddly

soft and painless. No real shock at all. Just a sickening thud, like

running over a body, a corpse -- or, ye fucking gods, a crippled 200-

pound sheep thrashing around in the road.

Yes. These huge white lumps were not boulders. They were sheep. Dead

and dying sheep. More and more of them, impossible to miss at this

speed, piled up on each other like bodies at the battle of Shiloh. It

was like running over wet logs. Horrible, horrible....

And then I saw the man -- a leaping Human Figure in the glare of my

bouncing headlight, waving his arms and yelling, trying to flag me

down. I swerved to avoid hitting him, but he seemed not to see me,

rushing straight into my headlights like a blind man....or a monster

from Mars with no pulse, covered with blood and hysterical.

It looked like a small black gentleman in a London Fog raincoat,

frantic to get my attention. It was so ugly that my brain refused to

accept it....Don't worry, I thought. This is only an Acid flashback.

Be calm. This is not really happening.

I was down to about thirty-five or thirty when I zoomed past the man

in the raincoat and bashed the brains out of a struggling sheep, which

helped to reduce my speed, as the car went airborne again, then

bounced to a shuddering stop just before I hit the smoking, overturned

hulk of what looked like a white Cadillac limousine, with people still

inside. It was a nightmare. Some fool had crashed into a herd of sheep

at high speed and rolled into the desert like an eggbeater.

We were able to laugh about it later, but it took a while to calm

down. What the hell? It was only an accident. The Judge had murdered

some strange animals.

So what? Only a racist maniac would run sheep on the highway in a

thunderstorm at this hour of the night. "Fuck those people!" he

snapped, as I took off toward Elko with him and his two female

companions tucked safely into my car, which had suffered major

cosmetic damage but nothing serious. "They'll never get away with this

Negligence!" he said. "We'll eat them alive in court. Take my word for

it. We are about to become joint owners of a huge Nevada sheep ranch."

Wonderful, I thought. But meanwhile we were leaving the scene of a

very conspicuous wreck that was sure to be noticed by morning, and the

whole front of my car was gummed up with wool and sheep's blood. There

was no way I could leave it parked on the street in Elko, where I'd

planned to stop for the night (maybe two or three nights, for that

matter) to visit with some old friends who were attending a kind of

Appalachian Conference for sex-film distributors at the legendary

Commercial Hotel....

Never mind that, I thought. Things have changed. I was suddenly a

Victim of Tragedy -- injured and on the run, far out in the middle of

sheep country -- 1000 miles from home with car full of obviously

criminal hitchhikers who were spattered with blood and cursing angrily

at each other as we zoomed through the blinding monsoon.

Jesus, I though Who are these people?

Who indeed? They seemed not to notice me. The two women fighting in

the back seat were hookers. No doubt about that. I had seen them in my

headlights as they struggled in the wreckage of the Cadillac, which

had killed about sixty sheep. They were desperate with Fear and

Confusion, crawling wildly across the sheep....One was a tall black

girl in a white minidress...and now she was screaming at the other

one, a young blond white woman. They were both drunk. Sounds of

struggle came from the back seat. "Get your hands off me, Bitch!" Then

a voice cried out, "Help me, Judge! Help! She's killing me!"

What? I thought. Judge? Then she said it again, and a horrible chill

went through me....Judge? No. That would be over the line.

Unacceptable.

He lunged over the back seat and whacked their heads together. "Shut

up!" he screamed. "Where are your fucking manners?"

He went over the seat again. He grabbed one of them by the hair.

"God damn you," he screamed. "Don't embarrass this man. He saved our

lives. We owe him respect -- not this god damned squalling around like

whores."

A shudder ran through me, but I gripped the wheel and stared

straight ahead, ignoring this sudden horrible freak show in my car. I

lit a cigarette, but I was not calm. Sounds of sobbing and the ripping

of cloth came from the back seat. The man they called Judge had

straightened himself out and was now resting easily in the front seat,

letting out long breaths of air....The silence was terrifying: I

quickly turned up the music. It was Los Lobos again -- something about

"One time One Night in America," a profoundly morbid tune about Death

and Disappointment:

A lady dressed in white

With the man she loved

Standing along the side of their pickup truck

A shot rang out in the night

Just when everything seemed right

Right. A shot. A shot rang out in the night. Just another headline

written down in America....Yes. There was a loaded .454 Magnum

revolver in a clearly marked oak box on the front seat, about halfway

between me and the Judge. He could grab it in a split second and blow

my head off.

"Good work, Boss," he said suddenly. " I owe you a big one, for

this. I was done for, if you hadn't come along." He chuckled. "Sure as

hell, Boss, sure as hell. I was Dead Meat -- killed a lot worse than

those goddamn stupid sheep!"

Jesus! I thought. Get ready to hit the brake. This man is a Judge on

the lam with two hookers. He has no choice but to kill me, and those

two floozies in the back seat too. We were the only witnesses.... This

eerie perspective made me uneasy....Fuck this, I thought. These people

are going to get me locked up. I'd be better off just pulling over

right here and killing all three of them. Bang, Bang, Bang! Terminate

the scum.

"How far is town? the Judge asked.

I jumped, and the car veered again. "Town?" I said.

"What town?" My arms were rigid and my voice was strange and reedy.

He whacked me on the knee and laughed. "Calm down, Boss," he said.

"I have everything under control. We're almost home." He pointed into

the rain, where I was beginning to see the dim lights of what I knew

to be Elko.

"Okay," he snapped. "Take a left, straight ahead." He pointed again

and I slipped the car into low. There was a red and blue neon sign

glowing about a half-mile ahead of us, barely visible in the storm.

The only words I could make out were NO and VACANCY.

"Slow down!" the Judge screamed. "This is it! Turn! Goddamnit,

turn!" His voice had the sound of a whip cracking. I recognized the

tone and did as he said, curling into the mouth of the curve with all

four wheels locked and the big engine snarling wildly in Compound Low

and the blue flames coming out of the tailpipe....It was one of those

long perfect moments in the human driving experience that makes

everybody quiet. Where is P.J.? I thought. This would bring him to his

knees.

We were sliding sideways very fast and utterly out of control and

coming up on a white steel guardrail at seventy miles an hour in a

thunderstorm on a deserted highway in the middle of the night.

Why not? On some nights Fate will pick you up like a chicken and

slam you around on the walls until your body feels like a

beanbag....BOOM! BLOOD! DEATH! So long, Bubba -- You knew it would End

like this....

We stabilized and shot down the loop. The Judge seemed oddly calm as

he pointed again. "This is it," he said. "This is my place. I keep a

few suites here." He nodded eagerly. "We're finally safe, Boss. We can

do anything we want in this place."

The sign at the gate said:

ENDICOTT'S MOTEL

DELUXE SUITES AND WATERBEDS

ADULTS ONLY/NO ANIMALS

Thank god, I thought. It was almost too good to be true. A place to

dump these bastards. They were quiet now, but not for long. And I knew

I couldn't handle it when these women woke up.

The Endicott was a string of cheap-looking bungalows, laid out in a

horseshoe pattern around a rutted gravel driveway. There were cars

parked in front of most of the units, but the slots in front of the

brightly lit places at the darker end of the horseshoe were empty.

"Okay," said the Judge. "We'll drop the ladies down there at our

suite, then I'll get you checked in." He nodded. "We both need some

sleep, Boss -- or at least rest, if you know what I mean. Shit, it's

been a long night."

I laughed, but it sounded like the bleating of a dead man. The

adrenalin rush of the sheep crash was gone, and now I was sliding into

pure Fatigue Hysteria. The Endicott "Office" was a darkened hut in the

middle of the horseshoe. We parked in front of it and then the Judge

began hammering on the wooden front door, but there was no immediate

response...."Wake up, goddamnit! It's me -- the Judge! Open up! This

is Life and Death! I need help!"

He stepped back and delivered a powerful kick at the door, which

rattled the glass panels and shook the whole building. " I know you're

in there," he screamed. "You can't hide! I'll kick your ass till your

nose bleeds!"

There was still no sign of life, and I quickly abandoned all hope.

Get out of here, I thought. This is wrong. I was still in the car,

half in and half out...The Judge put another fine snap-kick at a point

just over the doorknob and uttered a sharp scream in some language I

didn't recognize. Then I heard the sound of breaking glass.

I leapt back into the car and started the engine. Get away! I

thought. Never mind sleep. It's flee or die, now. People get killed

for doing this kind of shit in Nevada. It was far over the line.

Unacceptable behavior. This is why God made shotguns...

I saw lights come on in the Office. Then the door swung open and I

saw the Judge leap quickly through the entrance and grapple briefly

with a small bearded man in a bathrobe, who collapsed to the floor

after the Judge gave him a few blows to the head...Then he called back

to me. "Come on in, Boss," he yelled. "Meet Mister Henry."

I shut off the engine and staggered up the gravel path. I felt sick

and woozy, and my legs were like rubber bands.

The Judge reached out to help me. I shook hands with Mr. Henry, who

gave me a key and a form to fill out. "Bullshit," said the Judge.

"This man is my guest. He can have anything he wants. Just put it on

my bill."

"Of course," said Mr. Henry. "Your bill. Yes. I have it right here."

He reached under his desk and came up with a nasty-looking bundle of

adding-machine tapes and scrawled Cash/Payment memos...."You got here

just in time," he said. "We were about to notify the Police."

"What?" said the Judge. "Are you nuts? I have a goddamn platinum

American Express card! My credit is impeccable."

"Yes," said Mr. Henry. "We know that. We have total respect for you.

Your signature is better than gold bullion." The Judge smiled and

whacked the flat of his hand on the counter. "You bet it is!" he

snapped. "So get out of my goddamn face! You must be crazy to fuck

with Me like this! You fool! Are you ready to go to court?"

"Please, Judge," he said. Don't do this to me. All I need is your

card. Just let me run an imprint. That's all." He moaned and stared

more or less at the Judge, but I could see that his eyes were not

focused...."They're going to fire me," he whispered. "They want to put

me in jail."

"Nonsense!" the Judge snapped. "I would never let that happen. You

can always plead." He reached out and gently gripped Mr. Henry's

wrist. "Believe me, Bro," he hissed. "You have nothing to worry about.

You are cool. They will never lock you up! They will Never take you

away! Not out of my courtroom!"

"Thank you," Mr. Henry replied. "But all I need is your card and

your signature. That's the problem: I forgot to run it when you

checked in."

"So what?" the Judge barked. "I'm good for it. How much do you

need?"

"About $22,000," said Mr. Henry. "Probably $23,000 by now. You've

had those suites for nineteen days with total room service."

"What?" the Judge yelled. "You thieving bastards! I'll have you

crucified by American Express. You are finished in this business. You

will never work again! Not anywhere in the world! Then he whipped Mr.

Henry across the front of his face so fast that I barely saw it.

"Stop crying!" he said. "Get a grip on yourself! This is

embarrassing!"

Then he slapped the man again. "Is that all you want?" he said.

"Only a card? A stupid little card? A piece of plastic shit?"

Mr. Henry nodded. "Yes, Judge," he whispered. "That's all. Just a

stupid little card."

The Judge laughed and reached into his raincoat, as if to jerk out a

gun or at least a huge wallet. "You want a card, whoreface? Is that

it? Is that all you want? You filthy little scumbag! Here it is!"

Mr. Henry cringed and whimpered. Then he reached out to accept the

Card, the thing that would set him free...The Judge was still grasping

around in the lining of his raincoat. "What the fuck?" he muttered.

"This thing has too many pockets! I can feel it, but I can't find the

slit!"

Mr. Henry seemed to believe him, and so did I, for a minute....Why

not? He was a judge with a platinum credit card -- a very high roller.

You don't find many Judges, these days, who can handle a full caseload

in the morning and run wild like a goat in the afternoon. That is a

very hard dollar, and very few can handle it....but the Judge was a

Special Case.

Suddenly he screamed and fell sideways, ripping and clawing at the

lining of his raincoat. "Oh, Jesus!" he wailed. "I've lost my wallet!

It's gone. I left it out there in the Limo, when we hit the fucking

sheep."

"So what?" I said. "We don't need it for this. I have many plastic

cards."

He smiled and seemed to relax. "How many?" he said. "We might need

more than one."

I woke up in the bathtub -- who knows how much later -- to the sound

of the hookers shrieking next door. The New York Times had fallen in

and blackened the water. For many hours I tossed and turned like a

crack baby in a cold hallway. I heard thumping Rhythm & Blues --

serious rock & roll, and I knew that something wild was going on in

the Judge's suites. The smell of amyl nitrate came from under the

door. It was no use. It was impossible to sleep through this orgy of

ugliness. I was getting worried. I was already a marginally legal

person, and now I was stuck with some crazy Judge who had my credit

card and owed me $23,000.

I had some whiskey in the car, so I went out into the rain to get

some ice. I had to get out. As I walked past the other rooms, I looked

in people's windows and feverishly tried to figure out how to get my

credit card back. Then from behind me I heard the sound of a tow-truck

winch. The Judge's white Cadillac was being dragged to the ground. The

Judge was whooping it up with the tow-truck driver, slapping him on

the back.

"What the hell? It was only property damage," he laughed.

"Hey, Judge," I called out. "I never got my card back."

"Don't worry," he said. "It's in my room -- come on."

I was right behind him when he opened the door to his room, and I

caught a glimpse of a naked woman dancing. As soon as the door opened,

the woman lunged for the Judge's throat. She pushed him back outside

and slammed the door in his face.

"Forget that credit card -- we'll get some cash," the Judge said.

"Let's go down to the Commercial Hotel. My friends are there and they

have plenty of money.

We stopped for a six-pack on the way. The Judge went into a sleazy

liquor store that turned out to be a front for kinky marital aids. I

offered him money for the beer, but he grabbed my whole wallet.

Ten minutes later, the Judge came out with $400 worth of booze and a

bagful of Triple-X-Rated movies. "My buddies will like this stuff," he

said. "And don't worry about the money, I told you I'm good for it.

These guys carry serious cash."

The marquee above the front door of the Commercial Hotel said:

WELCOME: ADULT FILM PRESIDENTS

STUDEBAKER SOCIETY

FULL ACTION CASINO/KENO IN LOUNGE

"Park right her in front, said the Judge. "Don't worry. I'm well

known in this place."

Me too, but I said nothing. I have been well known at the Commercial

for many years, from the time when I was doing a lot of driving back

and forth between Denver and San Francisco -- usually for Business

reasons, or for Art, and on this particular weekend I was there to

meet quietly with a few old friends and business associates from the

Board of Directors of the Adult Film Association of America. I had

been, after all, the Night Manager of the famous O'Farrell Theatre, in

San Francisco -- "the Carnegie Hall of Sex in America."

I was the Guest of Honor, in fact -- but I saw no point in confiding

these things to the Judge, a total stranger with no Personal

Identification, no money and a very aggressive lifestyle. We were on

our way to the Commercial Hotel to borrow money from some of his

friends in the Adult Film business.

What the hell? I though. It's only Rock & Roll. And he was, after

all, a judge of some kind....Or maybe not. For all I knew he was a

criminal pimp with no fingerprints, or a wealthy black shepherd from

Spain. But it hardly mattered. He was good company (if you had a taste

for the edge work -- and I did, in those days. And so, I felt, did the

Judge). He had a bent sense of fun, a quick mind and no Fear of

anything.

The front door of the Commercial looked strangely busy at this hour

of night in a bad rainstorm, so I veered off and drove slowly around

the block in low gear.

"There's a side entrance on Queer Street," I said to the Judge, as

we hammered into a flood of black water. He seemed agitated, which

worried me a bit.

"Calm down," I said. "We don't want to make a scene in this place.

All we want is money."

"Don't worry," he said. "I know these people. They are friends.

Money is nothing. They will be happy to see me."

We entered the hotel through the Casino entrance. The Judge seemed

calm and focused until we rounded the corner and came face to face

with an eleven-foot polar bear standing on its hind legs, ready to

pounce. The Judge turned to jelly at the sight of it. "I've had enough

of this goddamn beast," he shouted." It doesn't belong here. We should

blow its head off."

I took him by the arm "Calm down, Judge," I told him. "That's White

King. He's been dead for about thirty-three years."

The Judge had no use for animals. He composed himself and we swung

into the lobby, approaching the desk from behind. I hung back--it was

getting late and the lobby was full of suspicious-looking stragglers

from the Adult Film crowd. Private cowboy cops wearing six-shooters in

open holsters were standing around. Our entrance did not go unnoticed.

The Judge looked competent, but there was something menacing in the

way he swaggered up to the desk clerk and whacked the marble

countertop with both hands. The lobby was suddenly filled with

tension, and I quickly moved away as the Judge began yelling and

pointing at the ceiling.

"Don't give me that crap," he barked. "These people are my friends.

They're expecting me. Just ring the goddamn room again." The desk

clerk muttered something about his explicit instructions not to....

Suddenly the Judge reached across the desk for the house phone.

"What's the number? I'll ring it myself" The clerk moved quickly. He

shoved the phone out of the Judge's grasp and simultaneously drew his

index finger across his throat. The Judge took one look at the muscle

converging on him and changed his stance.

"I want to cash a check," he said calmly.

"A check?" the clerk said. "Sure thing, buster. I'll cash your

goddamned check." He seized the Judge by his collar and laughed.

"Let's get this Bozo out of her. And put him in jail."

I was moving toward the door, and suddenly the Judge was right

behind me. "Let's go," he said. We sprinted for the car, but then the

Judge stopped in his tracks. He turned and raised his fist in the

direction of the hotel. "Fuck you!" he shouted. "I'm the Judge. I'll

be back, and I'll bust every one of you bastards. The next time you

see me coming, you'd better run."

We jumped into the car and zoomed away into the darkness. The Judge

was acting manic. "Never mind those pimps," he said. "I'll have them

all on a chain gang in forty-eight hours." He laughed and slapped me

on the back. "Don't worry, Boss," he said. "I know where we're going."

He squinted into the rain and opened a bottle of Royal Salute.

"Straight ahead," he snapped. "Take a right at the next corner. We'll

go see Leach. He owes me $24,000."

I slowed down and reached for the whiskey. What the hell, I thought.

Some days are weirder than others.

"Leach is my secret weapon," the Judge said, "but I have to watch

him. He could be violent. The cops are always after him. He lives in a

balance of terror. But he has a genius for gambling. We win eight out

of ten every week." He nodded solemnly. "That is four of five, Doc.

That is Big. Very big. That is eighty percent of everything." He shook

his head sadly and reached for the whiskey. "It's a horrible habit.

But I can't give it up. It's like having a money machine."

"That's wonderful," I said. "What are you bitching about?"

"I'm afraid, Doc. Leach is a monster, a criminal hermit who

understands nothing in life except point spreads. He should be locked

up and castrated."

"So what?" I said. "Where does he live? We are desperate. We have no

cash and no plastic. This freak is our only hope."

The Judge slumped into himself, and neither one of us spoke for a

minute.... "Well," he said finally. "Why not? I can handle almost

anything for twenty-four big ones in a brown bag. What the fuck? Let's

do it. If the bastard gets ugly, we'll kill him."

"Come on, Judge," I said. "Get a grip on yourself. This is only a

gambling debt."

"Sure," he replied. "That's what they all say."

[Part III] Dead Meat in the Fast Lane: The Judge Runs Amok...Death of

a Poet, Blood Clots in the Revenue Stream...The Man Who Loved Sex

Dolls

We pulled into a seedy trailer court behind the stockyards. Leach

met us at the door with red eyes and trembling hands, wearing a soiled

bathrobe and carrying a half-gallon of Wild Turkey.

"Thank God you're home," The Judge said. "I can't tell you what kind

of horrible shit has happened to me tonight....But now the worm has

turned. Now that we have cash, we will crush them all."

Leach just stared. Then he took a swig of Wild Turkey. "We are

doomed," he muttered. "I was about to slit my wrists."

"Nonsense," the Judge said. "We won Big. I bet the same way you did.

You gave me the numbers. You even predicted the Raiders would stomp

Denver. Hell, it was obvious. The Raiders are unbeatable on Monday

night."

Leach tensed, then he threw his head back and uttered a high-pitched

quavering shriek. The Judge seized him. "Get a grip on yourself," he

snapped. "What's wrong?"

"I went sideways on the bet," Leach sobbed. "I went to that goddamn

sports bar up in Jackpot with some of the guys from the shop. We were

all drinking Mescal and screaming, and I lost my head."

Leach was clearly a bad drinker and a junkie for mass hysteria. "I

got drunk and bet on the Broncos," he moaned, "then I doubled up. We

lost everything."

A terrible silence fell on the room. Leach was weeping helplessly.

The Judge seized him by the sash of his greasy leather robe and

started jerking him around by the stomach.

They ignored me and I tried to pretend it wasn't happening....It was

too ugly. There was and ashtray on the table in front of the couch. As

I reached for it, I noticed a legal pad of what appeared to be Leach's

poems, scrawled with a red Magic Marker in some kind of primitive

verse form. There was one that caught my eye. There was something

particularly ugly about it. There was something repugnant in the harsh

slant of the handwriting. It was about pigs.

I TOLD HIM

IT WAS WRONG

By F.X. Leach

Omaha 1968

A filthy young pig

got tired of his gig

and begged for a transfer

to Texas.

Police ran him down

on the Outskirts of town

and ripped off his Nuts

with a coathanger.

Everything after that was like

coming home in a cage on the

back of at train from

New Orleans on a Saturday

night

with no money and cancer and

a dead girlfriend.

In the end it was no use

He died on his knees in a barn

yard

with all the others watching.

Res Ipsa Loquitur

"They're going to kill me," Leach said. "They'll be here by

midnight. I'm doomed." He uttered another low cry and reached for the

Wild Turkey bottle, which had fallen over and spilled.

"Hang on," I said. "I'll get more."

On my way to the kitchen I was jolted by the sight of a naked woman

slumped awkwardly in the corner with a desperate look on her face, as

if she'd been shot. Her eyes bulged and her mouth was wide open and

she appeared to be reaching out for me.

I leapt back and heard laughter behind me. My first thought was that

Leach, unhinged by his gambling disaster, had finally gone over the

line with his wife-beating habit and shot her in the mouth just before

we knocked. She appeared to be crying out for help, but there was no

voice.

I ran into the kitchen to look for a knife thinking, that if Leach

had gone crazy enough to kill his wife, now he would have to kill me,

too, since I was the only witness. Except the Judge, who locked

himself in the bathroom.

Leach appeared in the doorway holding the naked woman by the neck

and hurled her across the room at me....

Time stood still for an instant. The woman seemed to hover in the

air, coming at me in the darkness like a body in slow motion. I went

into a stance with the bread knife and braced for a fight to the

death.

The thing hit me and bounced softly down to the floor. It was a

rubber blow-up doll: one of those things with five orifices that young

stockbrokers buy in adult bookstores after the singles bars close.

"Meet Jennifer," he said. "She's my punching bag." He picked it up

by the hair and slammed it across the room.

"Ho, ho," he chuckled, "no more wife beating. I'm cured, thanks to

Jennifer." He smiled sheepishly . "It's almost like a miracle. These

dolls saved my marriage. They're a lot smarter than you think." He

nodded gravely. "Sometimes I have to beat two at once. But it always

calms me down, you know what I mean?"

Whoops, I thought. Welcome to the night train. "Oh, hell yes, I said

quickly. "How do the neighbors handle it?"

"No problem," he said. "They love me."

Sure, I thought. I tried to imagine the horror of living in a muddy

industrial slum full of tin-walled trailers and trying to protect your

family against brain damage from knowing that every night when you

look out your kitchen window there will be a man in a leather bathrobe

flogging two naked women around the room with a quart bottle of Wild

Turkey. Sometimes for two or three hours...It was horrible.

"Where is your wife?" I asked. "Is she still here?"

"Oh, yes." he said quickly. "She just went out for some cigarettes

She'll be back any minute." He nodded eagerly. "Oh, yes, she's very

proud of me. We're almost reconciled. She really loves these dolls."

I smiled, but something about this story mad me nervous. "How many

do you have?" I asked him.

"Don't worry," he said. "I have all we need." He reached into a

nearby broom closet and pulled out another one -- a half-inflated

Chinese-looking woman with rings in her nipples and two electric cords

attached to her head." This is Ling-Ling," he said. "She screams when

I hit her." He whacked the doll's head and it squawked stupidly.

Just then I heard car doors slamming outside the trailer, then loud

knocking on the front door and a gruff voice shouting, "Open up!

Police!"

Leach grabbed a .44 Magnum out of a shoulder holster inside his

bathrobe and fired two shots through the front door. "You bitch," he

screamed. "I should have killed you a long time ago."

He fired two more shots, laughing calmly. Then he turned to face me

and put the barrel of the gun in his mouth. He hesitated for a moment,

staring directly into my eyes. Then he pulled the trigger and blew off

the back of his head.

The dead man seemed to lunge at me, slumping headfirst against my

legs as he fell to the floor -- just as a volley of shotgun blasts

came through the front door, followed by harsh shouts on a police

bullhorn from outside. Then another volley of buckshot blasts that

exploded the TV set and set the living room on fire, filling the

trailer with dense brown smoke that I recognized instantly as the

smell of Cyanide gas being released by the burning plastic couch.

Voices were screaming through the smoke, "Surrender! HANDS UP behind

your goddamn head! DEAD MEAT!" Then more shooting. Another deafening

fireball exploded out of the living room, I kicked the corpse off my

feet and leapt for the back door, which I'd noticed earlier when I

scanned the trailer for "alternative exits," as they say in the

business -- in case one might become necessary. I was halfway out the

door when I remembered the Judge. He was still locked in the bathroom,

maybe helpless in some kind of accidental drug coma, unable to get to

his feet as flames roared through the trailer....

Ye Fucking Gods! I thought. I can't let him burn.

Kick the door off its hinges. Yes. Whack! The door splintered and I

saw him sitting calmly on the filthy aluminum toilet stool, pretending

to read a newspaper and squinting vacantly at me as I crashed in and

grabbed him by one arm.

"Fool!" I screamed. "Get up! Run! They'll murder us!"

He followed me through the smoke and burning debris holding his

pants up with one hand....The Chinese sex doll called Ling-Ling

hovered crazily in front of the door, her body swollen from heat and

her hair on fire. I slapped her aside and bashed the door open,

dragging the Judge outside with me. Another volley of shotgun blasts

and bullhorn yells erupted somewhere behind us. The Judge lost his

footing and fell heavily into the mud behind the doomed Airstream.

"Oh, God!" he screamed. "who is it?"

"The Pigs," I said. "They've gone crazy. Leach is dead! They're

trying to kill us. We have to get to the car!"

He stood up quickly. "Pigs?" he said. "Pigs? Trying to kill me?"

He seemed to stiffen, and the dumbness went out of his eyes. He

raised both fists and screamed in the direction of the shooting. "You

bastards! You scum! You will die for this. You stupid white-trash

pigs!"

"Are they nuts?" he muttered. He jerked out of my grasp and reached

angrily into his left armpit, then down to his belt and around behind

his back like a gunfighter trying to slap leather....But there was no

leather there. Not even a sleeve holster.

"Goddamnit!" he snarled. "Where's my goddamn weapon? Oh, Jesus! I

left it in the car!" He dropped into a running crouch and sprinted

into the darkness, around the corner of the flaming Airstream. "Let's

go!" he hissed. "I'll kill these bastards! I'll blow their fucking

heads off!"

Right, I thought, as we took off in a kind of low-speed desperate

crawl through the mud and the noise and the gunfire, terrified

neighbors screaming frantically to each other in the darkness. The red

convertible was parked in the shadows, near the front of the trailer

right next to the State Police car, with its chase lights blinking

crazily and voices burping out of its radio.

The Pigs were nowhere to be seen. They had apparently rushed the

place, guns blazing -- hoping to kill Leach before he got away. I

jumped into the car and started the engine. The Judge came through the

passenger door and reached for the loaded .454 Magnum....I watched in

horror as he jerked it out of its holster and ran around to the front

of the cop car and fired two shots into the grille.

"Fuck you!" he screamed. "Take this, you Scum! Eat shit and die!" He

jumped back as the radiator exploded in a blast of steam and scalding

water. Then he fired three more times through the windshield and into

the squawking radio, which also exploded.

"Hot damn!" he said as he slid back into the front seat. "Now we

have them trapped!" I jammed the car into reverse and lost control in

the mud, hitting a structure of some kind and careening sideways at

top speed until I got a grip on the thing and aimed it up the ramp to

the highway....The Judge was trying desperately to reload the .454,

yelling at me to slow down, so he could finish the bastards off! His

eyes were wild and his voice was unnaturally savage.

I swerved hard left to Elko and hurled him sideways, but he quickly

recovered his balance and somehow got off five more thundering shots

in the general direction of the burning trailer behind us.

"Good work, Judge," I said. "They'll never catch us now." He smiled

and drank deeply from our Whiskey Jug, which he had somehow picked up

as we fled.... Then he passed it over to me, and I too drank deeply as

I whipped the big V-8 into passing gear, and we went from forty-five

to ninety in four seconds and left the ugliness far behind us in the

rain.

I glanced over at the Judge as he loaded five huge bullets into the

Magnum. He was very calm and focused, showing no signs of the drug

coma that had crippled him just moments before....I was impressed. The

man was clearly a Warrior. I slapped him on the back and grinned.

"Calm down, Judge," I said. "We're almost home."

I knew better, of course. I was 1000 miles from home, and we were

almost certainly doomed. There was no hope of escaping the dragnet

that would be out for us, once those poor fools discovered Leach in a

puddle of burning blood with the top of his head blown off. The squad

car was destroyed -- thanks to the shrewd instincts of the Judge --

but I knew it would not take them long to send out an all-points

alarm. Soon there would be angry police road-blocks at every exit

between Reno and Salt Lake City....

So what? I thought. There were many side roads, and we had a very

fast car. All I had to do was get the Judge out of his killing frenzy

and find a truck stop where we could buy a few cans of Flat Black

spray paint. Then we could slither out of the state before dawn and

find a place to hide.

But it would not be an easy run. In the quick space of four hours we

had destroyed two automobiles and somehow participated in at least one

killing -- in addition to all the other random, standard-brand crimes

like speeding and arson and fraud and attempted murder of State Police

officers while fleeing the scene of a homicide....

No. We had a Serious problem on our hands. We were trapped in the

middle of Nevada like crazy rats, and the cops would shoot to Kill

when they saw us. No doubt about that. We were Criminally Insane....I

laughed and shifted up into Drive. The car stabilized at 115 or so....

The Judge was eager to get back to his women. He was still fiddling

with the Magnum, spinning the cylinder nervously and looking at his

watch. "Can't you go any faster?" he muttered. "How far is Elko?"

Too far, I thought, which was true. Elko was fifty miles away and

there would be roadblocks. Impossible. They would trap us and probably

butcher us.

Elko was out, but I was loath to break this news to the Judge. He

had no stomach for bad news. He had a tendency to flip out and flog

anything in sight when things weren't going his way.

It was wiser, I thought, to humor him. Soon he would go to sleep.

I slowed down and considered. Our options were limited. There would

be roadblocks on every paved road out of Wells. It was a main

crossroads, a gigantic full-on truck stop where you could get anything

you wanted twenty-four hours a day, within reason of course. And what

we needed was not in that category. We needed to disappear. That was

one option.

We could go south on 93 to Ely, but that was about it. That would be

like driving into a steel net. A flock of pigs would be waiting for

us, and after that it would be Nevada State Prison. To the north on 93

was Jackpot, but we would never make that either. Running east into

Utah was hopeless. We were trapped. They would run us down like dogs.

There were other options, but not all of them were mutual. The Judge

had his priorities, but they were not mine. I understood that me and

the Judge were coming up on a parting of the ways. This made me

nervous. There were other options, of course, but they were all High

Risk. I pulled over and studied the map again. the Judge appeared to

be sleeping, but I couldn't be sure. He still had the Magnum in his

lap.

The Judge was getting to be a problem. There was no way to get him

out of the car without violence. He would not go willingly into the

dark and stormy night. The only other way was to kill him, but that

was out of the question as long as he had the gun. He was very quick

in emergencies. I couldn't get the gun away from him, and I was not

about to get into an argument with him about who should have the

weapon. If I lost, he would shoot me in the spine and leave me in the

road.

I was getting too nervous to continue without chemical assistance. I

reached under the seat for my kit bag, which contained five or six

Spansules of Black Acid. Wonderful, I thought. This is just what I

need. I ate one and went back to pondering the map. There was a place

called Deeth, just ahead, where a faintly marked side road appeared to

wander uphill through the mountains and down along a jagged ridge into

Jackpot from behind. Good, I thought, this is it. We could sneak into

Jackpot by dawn.

Just then I felt a blow on the side of my head as the Judge came

awake with a screech, flailing his arms around him like he was coming

out of nightmare. "What's happening, goddamnit?" he said. "Where are

we? They're after us." He was jabbering in a foreign language that

quickly lapsed into English as he tried to aim the gun. "Oh, God," he

screamed, "They're right on top of us. Get moving, goddamnit. I'll

kill every bastard I see."

He was coming out of a nightmare. I grabbed him by the neck and put

him in a headlock until he went limp. I pulled him back up in the seat

and handed him a Spansule of acid. "Here, Judge, take this," I said.

"It'll calm you down."

He swallowed the pill and said nothing as I turned onto the highway

and stood heavily on the accelerator. We were up to 115 when a green

exit sign that said DEETH NO SERVICES loomed suddenly out of the rain

just in front of us. I swerved hard to the right and tried to hang on.

But it was no use. I remember the sound of the Judge screaming as we

lost control and went into a full 360-degree curl and then backwards

at seventy-five or eighty through a fence and into a pasture.

For some reason the near-fatal accident had a calming effect on the

Judge. Or maybe it was the acid. I didn't care one way or the other

after I took the gun from his hand. He gave it up without a fight. He

seemed to be more interested in reading the road signs and listening

to the radio. I knew that if we could slip into jackpot the back way,

I could get the car painted any color I wanted in thirty-three minutes

and put the Judge on a plane. I knew a small private airstrip there,

where nobody asks too many questions and they'll take a personal

check.

At dawn we drove across the tarmac and pulled up to a seedy-looking

office marked AIR JACKPOT EXPRESS CHARTER COMPANY. "This is it Judge,"

I said and slapped him on the back. "This is where you get off." He

seemed resigned to his fate until the woman behind the front desk told

him there wouldn't be a flight to Elko until lunch time.

"Where is the pilot?" he demanded.

"I am the pilot," the woman said, "but I can't leave until Debby

gets her to relieve me."

"Fuck this!" the Judge shouted. "Fuck lunch time. I have to leave

now, you bitch."

The woman seemed truly frightened by his mood swing, and when the

Judge leaned in and gave her a taste of the long knuckle, she

collapsed and began weeping uncontrollably. "There's more where that

came from," he told her. "Get up! I have to get out of here now."

He jerked her out from behind the desk and was dragging her toward

the plane when I slipped out the back door. It was daylight now. The

car was nearly out of gas, but that wasn't my primary concern. The

police would be here in minutes, I thought. I'm doomed. But then, as I

pulled onto the highway, I saw a sign that said, WE PAINT ALL NIGHT.

As I pulled into the parking lot, the Jackpot Express plane passed

overhead. So long, Judge, I thought to myself. You're a brutal hustler

and a Warrior and a great copilot, but you know how to get your way.

You will go far in the world.

[Part IV] Epilogue: Christmas Dreams and Cruel Memories...Nation of

Jailers...Stand Back! The Judge Will See You Now

That's about it for now, Jann. This story is too depressing to have

to confront professionally in these morbid weeks before Christmas....I

have only vague memories of what it's like there in New York, but

sometimes I have flashbacks about how it was to glide in perfect

speedy silence around the ice rink in front of NBC while junkies and

federal informants in white beards and sleazy red jumpsuits worked the

crowd mercilessly for nickels and dollars and dimes covered with Crack

residue.

I remember one Christmas morning in Manhattan when we got into the

Empire State Building and went up to the Executive Suite of some

famous underwear company and shoved a 600-pound red, tufted-leather

Imperial English couch out of a corner window on something like the

eighty-fifth floor....The wind caught it, as I recall, and it sort of

drifted around the corner onto Thirty-fourth Street, picking up speed

on its way down, and hit the striped awning of a Korean market, you

know, the kind that sells everything from kimchi to Christmas trees.

The impact blasted watermelons and oranges and tomatoes all over the

sidewalk. We could barely see the impact from where we were, but I

remember a lot of activity on the street when we came out of the

elevator.... It looked like a war zone. A few gawkers were standing

around in a blizzard, muttering to each other and looking dazed. They

thought it was an underground explosion -- maybe a subway or a gas

main.

Just as we arrived on the scene, a speeding cab skidded on some

watermelons and slammed into a Fifth Avenue bus and burst into flames.

There was a lot of screaming and wailing of police sirens Two cops

began fighting with a gang of looters who had emerged like ghosts out

of the snow and were running off with hams and turkeys and big jars of

caviar....Nobody seemed to think it was strange. What the hell? Shit

happens. Welcome to the Big Apple. Keep alert. Never ride in open cars

or walk to too close to a tall building when it snows ....There were

Christmas trees scattered all over the street and cars were stopping

to grab them and speeding away. We stole one and took it to Missy's

place on the Bowery, because we knew she didn't have one. But she

wasn't home, so we put the tree out on the fire escape and set it on

fire with kerosene.

That's how I remember New York, Jann. It was always a time of angst

and failure and turmoil. Nobody ever seemed to have any money on

Christmas. Even rich people were broke and jabbering frantically on

their telephones about Santa Claus and suicide or joining a church

with no rules....The snow was clean and pretty for the first twenty or

thirty minutes around dawn, but after that it was churned into filthy

mush by drunken cabbies and garbage compactors and shitting dogs.

Anybody who acted happy on Christmas was lying -- even the ones were

getting paid $500 an hour....The Jews were especially sulky, and who

could blame them? The birthday of Baby Jesus is always a nervous time

for people who know that ninety days later they will be accused of

murdering him.

So what? We have our own problems, eh? Jesus! I don't know how you

can ride all those motorcycles around in the snow, Jann. Shit, we can

all handle the back wheel coming loose in a skid. But the front wheel

is something else -- and that's what happens when it snows. WHACKO.

One minute you feel as light and safe as a snowflake, and the next

minute you're sliding sideways under the wheels of a Bekins

van....Nasty traffic jams, horns honking, white limos full of naked

Jesus freaks going up on the sidewalk in low gear to get around you

and the mess you made on the street...Goddamn this scum. They are more

and more in the way. And why aren't they home with their families on

Xmas? Why do they need to come out here and die on the street like

iron hamburgers?

I hate these bastards, Jann. And I suspect you feel the same....They

might call us bigots, but at least we are Universal bigots. Right?

Shit on those people. Everybody you see these days might have the

power to get you locked up....Who knows why? They will have reasons

straight out of some horrible Kafka story, but in the end it won't

matter any more than a full moon behind clouds. Fuck them.

Christmas hasn't changed much in twenty-two years, Jann -- not even

2000 miles west and 8000 feet up in the Rockies. It is still a day

that only amateurs can love. It is all well and good for children and

acid freaks to still believe in Santa Claus -- but it is still a

profoundly morbid day for us working professionals. It is unsettling

to know that one out of every twenty people you meet on Xmas will be

dead this time next year....Some people can accept this, and some

can't. That is why God made whiskey, and also why Wild Turkey comes in

$300 shaped canisters during most of the Christmas season, and also

why criminal shitheads all over New York City will hit you up for $100

tips or they'll twist your windshield wipers into spaghetti and

urinate on your door handles.

People all around me are going to pieces, Jann. My whole support

system has crumbled like wet sugar cubes. That is why I try never to

employ anyone over the age of twenty. Every Xmas after that is like

another notch down on the ratchet, or maybe a few more teeth off the

flywheel....I remember on Xmas in New York when I was trying to sell a

Mark VII Jaguar with so many teeth off the flywheel that the whole

drivetrain would lock up and whine every time I tried to start the

engine for a buyer....I had to hire gangs of street children to muscle

the car back and forth until the throw-out gear on the starter was

lined up very precisely to engage the few remaining teeth on the

flywheel. On some days I would leave the car idling in a fireplug zone

for three or four hours at a time and pay the greedy little bastards a

dollar an hour to keep it running and wet-shined with fireplug water

until a buyer came along.

We got to know each other pretty well after nine or ten weeks, and

they were finally able to unload it on a rich artist who drove as far

as the toll plaza at the far end of the George Washington Bridge,

where the engine seized up and exploded like a steam bomb. "They had

to tow it away with a firetruck," he said. "Even the leather seats

were on fire. They laughed at me."

There is more and more Predatory bullshit in the air these days.

Yesterday I got a call from somebody who said I owed money to Harris

Wofford, my old friend from the Peace Corps. We were in Sierra Leone

together.

He came out of nowhere like a heat-seeking missile and destroyed the

U.S. Attorney General in Pennsylvania. It was Wonderful. Harris is a

Senator now, and the White House creature is not. Thornburgh blew a

forty-four point lead in three weeks, like Humpty Dumpty....WHOOPS!

Off the wall like a big Lizard egg. The White House had seen no need

for a safety net.

It was a major disaster for the Bush brain trust and every GOP

political pro in America, from the White House all the way down to

City Hall in places like Denver and Tupelo. The whole Republican party

was left stunned and shuddering like a hound dog passing a peach

pit....At least that's what they said in Tupelo, where one of the

local GOP chairmen flipped out and ran off to Biloxi with a fat young

boy from one of the rich local families....then he tried to blame it

on Harris Wofford when they arrested him in Mobile for aggravated

Sodomy and kidnapping. He was ruined, and his Bail was only $5000, but

none of his friends would sign for it. They were mainly professional

Republicans and bankers who had once been in the Savings and Loan

business, along with Neil Bush the manqu‚ son of the President.

Neil had just walked on a serious Fraud bust in Colorado. But only

by the skin of his teeth, after his father said he would have to

abandon him to a terrible fate in the Federal Prison System if his son

was really a crook. The evidence was overwhelming, but Neil had a

giddy kind of talent negotiating -- like Colonel North and the

Admiral, who also walked....It was shameless and many people bitched.

But what the fuck do they expect from a Party of high-riding Darwinian

rich boys who've been running around in the White House for twelve

straight years? They can do whatever they want, and why not. "These

are Good Boys," John Sununu once said of this staff. "They only shit

in the pressroom."

Well...Sununu is gone now, and so is Dick Thornburgh, who is

currently seeking night work in the bank business somewhere on the

outskirts of Pittsburgh. It is an ugly story. He decided to go out on

his own -- like Lucifer, who plunged into Hell -- and he got beaten

like a redheaded stepchild by my old Peace Corps buddy Harris Wofford,

who caught him from behind like a bull wolverine so fast that

Thornburgh couldn't even get out of the way....He was mangled and

humiliated. It was the worst public disaster since Watergate.

The GOP was plunged into national fear. How could it happen? Dick

Thornburgh had sat on the right hand of God. As AG, he had stepped out

like some arrogant Knight form the Round Table and declared that his

boys -- 4000 or so Justice Department prosecutors -- were no longer

subject to the rules of the Federal Court System.

But he was wrong, And now Wofford is using Thornburghs's corpse as a

landing pad for a run on the White House and hiring experts to collect

bogus debts from old buddies like me. Hell, I like the idea of Harris

being President. He always seemed honest and I knew he was smart, but

I am leery of giving him money.

That is politics in the 1990s. Democratic presidential candidates

have not been a satisfying investment recently. Camelot was thirty

years ago, and we still don't know who killed Jack Kennedy. That lone

bullet on the stretcher in Dallas sure as hell didn't pass through two

human bodies, but it was the one that pierced the heart of the

American Dream in our century, maybe forever.

Camelot is on Court TV now, limping into Rehab clinics and forced to

deny low-rent Rape accusations in the same sweaty West Palm Beach

courthouse where Roxanne Pulitzer went on trial for fucking a trumpet

and lost.

It has been a long way down -- not just for the Kennedys and the

Democrats, but for all the rest of us. Even the rich and the powerful,

who are coming to understand that change can be quick in the Nineties

and one of these days it will be them in the dock on TV, fighting

desperately to stay out of prison.

Take my word for it. I have been there, and it gave me an eerie

feeling.... Indeed. There are many cells in the mansion, and more are

being added every day. We are becoming a nation of jailers.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=2629736&forum_id=2#26013310)



Reply Favorite

Date: July 28th, 2014 12:41 AM
Author: Twisted Address

And that's about it for now, Jann. Christmas is on us and it's all

downhill from here on....At least until Groundhog Day, which is

soon....So, until then, at least, take my advice as your family

doctor, and don't do anything that might cause either one of us to

have to appear before the Supreme Court of the United States. If you

know what I'm saying....

Yes. He is Up There, Jann. The Judge. And he will be there for a

long time, waiting to gnaw on our skulls....Right. put that in your

leather pocket the next time you feel like jumping on your new

motorcycle and screwing it all the way over thru traffic and passing

cop cars at 140.

Remember F.X. Leach. He crossed the Judge, and he paid a terrible

price....And so will you, if you don't slow down and quit harassing

those girls in your office. The Judge is in charge now, and He won't

tolerate it. Beware.

-To Be Continued-

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=2629736&forum_id=2#26013315)



Reply Favorite

Date: August 9th, 2014 3:33 AM
Author: Twisted Address



(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=2629736&forum_id=2#26091414)