Dangerous Fun In The House Of The Scorpion

[LadyTevar]

Midnight In The Garden Of Loud And Stupid

"What do we want?!"
"BEER!!!"
"When do we want it?!"
"NOW!!!

::DIESDIESDIES, wipes tear from eye:: That's Classic!!

[Tom_Aurum]

Yeah yeah. I got a phone number from the cute five foot auburn haired engineer woman that night.

[XaLEv]

Ah, fucking with the mundanes. In all it's forms, truly one of the greatest things in the world.

[Raoul Duke, Jr.]

And now, for your viewing pleasure, Dangerous Fun In The House Of The Scorpion can now be seen at http://www.caphector.com/scorpion !

Tell all your friends to go read the articles, laugh their asses off and help support Gonzo Journalism! (Or 2 out of 3 ain't bad...)

Spiffy-ass logo, too!

[Cap'n Hector]

And now, for your viewing pleasure, Dangerous Fun In The House Of The Scorpion can now be seen at http://www.caphector.com/scorpion !

Tell all your friends to go read the articles, laugh their asses off and help support Gonzo Journalism! (Or 2 out of 3 ain't bad...)

Spiffy-ass logo, too!

Last I checked, it was at http://www.caphector.com/dangerous ...I agree about the logo.

[Captain Jack]

LOL

[Cthulhu-chan]

Jesus christ, I haven't heard the term "gonzo jornalism" in years. Bravo, fellow Phoenician. May your escapades continue apace.

[Raoul Duke, Jr.]

And now, for your viewing pleasure, Dangerous Fun In The House Of The Scorpion can now be seen at http://www.caphector.com/scorpion !

Tell all your friends to go read the articles, laugh their asses off and help support Gonzo Journalism! (Or 2 out of 3 ain't bad...)

Spiffy-ass logo, too!

Last I checked, it was at http://www.caphector.com/dangerous ...I agree about the logo.

Yeah, brain-fart. I kinda pewed the scrooch there. Cap got it right, now Quick! Everybody look!

[Raoul Duke, Jr.]

Explosive Laundry Disposal

I'm pissed. Thoroughly, head-to-toe pissed. Sometimes, the asinine crap that goes on on Mill Avenue is funny... sometimes it can move you... and sometimes it makes you want to pick up the nearest mammal in a uniform and use them to test the structural integrity of the nearest building.

I like to hit Coffee Plantation just after sunrise. Warm, golden sunlight filters into the brick canyon formed by the surrounding buildings, squadrons of finches huddle and peep at each other in the corners, and there's an overwhelming sense that the world is at rest. This was that kind of morning.

I stepped outside with a large, pleasantly aromatic glass mug brim-full of Butter Toffee (one cream, two sugars) and took a seat at a table looking out toward the corner of Mill and Sixth. I noticed a trio of homeless kids sitting at a table across from mine. They talked loudly. They laughed loudly. On a guess, I'd have to say they probably did most things loudly.

I know some of the homeless kids down here; they can be good sources, and they're decent people, mostly. There are two camps among what are known as the "Mill Rats"; there are the "Lost Boys" -- new kids just drifting into town, usually from places like San Francisco or L.A., the Lost Boys tend to be rowdy, uncouth, sometimes drunk or high on any number of recreational substances.

Then there are The Regulators. Veterans, most of them, here by choice -- their reasons are their own. The reason for the name, though, is simple. They've chosen not to play by society's rules -- they've abandoned a society that they feel has abandoned them, and become a new kind of outlaw. But there's another reason for the name: where the Lost Boys are obnoxious, loud, messy and sometimes violent, The Regulators police themselves and each other, as needed. They keep the scene -- as best they can -- low-key. After all, an outlaw's freedom depends on keeping a low profile.

But it wasn't a table of Regulators across from me this morning. Just three Lost Boys and their gear -- and it couldn't be long before their show got noticed.

One of them, a kid who looked to be in his early twenties, got up from his chair, "Hey, watch my shit for a minute, will ya?" His buddies nodded, and he took off. I lit a cigarette.

"Hey, man!" one of them yelled over at me. "Can I get a cigarette?" His friend looked over at me expectantly.

I got up, walked over to them. "Yeah, why the hell not." I handed him one, but I added as I noticed his friend's hand reaching out, "I only bum out one a day, though."
"Aw, shit, man..." his friend groused.
"Keeps me from running out and bumming them off you." I added, by way of explanation.
"We'll share." the first one said, and his disappointed friend nodded reluctantly.

"Excuse me, gentlemen," a cigarette-scarred female voice spoke up from behind us. "You have to make a minimum purchase or you have to leave." Minimum-purchase Nazi. Fucking bitch.

The woman the Regulators refer to as the Minimum-purchase Nazi is a member of T.E.A.M., which stands for Tempe Area Event Management -- basically the local area security goons. Now, the Minimum-Purchase Nazi is only doing her job, of course -- but it is the absolute relish with which she pursues the Regulators and Lost Boys alike -- the diabolical glint in her eye that tells you she's one trespassing away from coming in her lead-lined panties -- that marks her as Evil.

"My coffee's right over there," I hiked my thumb over my shoulder. She glared at me, as if to say, You were talking to them -- I've got your number now!

"Well, you're okay then." she admitted reluctantly. "But these two gentlemen need to make a purchase or hit the road." The two Lost Boys sighed and hauled themselves to their feet. Within seconds, they were out of sight; the pungent, dust-like aroma of Patchouli disappeared with them.

I looked around the small courtyard, at all the 6:30-A.M.-empty tables... Thoughtless cunt. I thought at the bitch. I hope you find yourself in their place.

I picked up a copy of New Times and wandered back to my coffee to read about some insignificant basketball player who gets paid a million plus a year to do what dolphins do at Sea World for fish. I thought it might amuse me. It didn't.

My coffee had gone cold be the time I picked it up again, so I meandered inside and placed it in the microwave. While the machine hummed, I thought I heard:

"...might be a... well, it's been sitting there... yes. Yes, please send someone..." It barely registered. Stupid, meaningless shitbabble. Filter it out, indulge in anger, nothing they say matters. Fuck the bozos, fuck 'em all, and fuck me right along with 'em.

The nukebox bleeped, and I took my coffee -- ow, fuck! Hot! Put the coffee back, suck on finger -- Wake up, man! I bet Kerouac never had to put up with this shit. Good thing I'm not Kerouac. I'm much better-looking. Heh.

I finally got myself and my coffee back outside. I sat down, trying to think of a way to pull myself out of this foul mood. Why had I let this affect me so much? Why did I care what happened to these kids, who would probably move on to the next town, like a swarm of whiney locusts, in a few days regardless of what happened to them here? Why should I give a fuck? Like the song says, it ain't my bitch.

I allowed myself to drop back into the peaceful scenery, blend in, ah yes, just another brick in the wall, and what's wrong with that? I've got my coffee, I've got my smokes, there's jazz wafting out of the P.A., the birds are singing, there's a guy saying something -- Fucking shit, what the fuck is it now!

"What!" I screamed.
The guy in the orange hat blinked, then tried again. "I'm gonna have to ask you to leave, sir." Behind him, three cops in riot helmets were huddled over something at a nearby table.

"What the fuck are you talking about, you neon orange bastard?!" I pulled out a cigarette.

He saw the cigarette and looked like he was going to faint. "Oo! Oo!" he hooted. "Don't -- don't light that! Oo! Oh! Oo!"

"All right! Jesus, don't piss yourself!" I put the cigarette away. What the fuck was this guy's problem? "What the fuck is your problem?" I asked.

He leaned forward and spoke intensely. "There's been a bomb threat, sir. We're asking everyone to evacuate--"

My mind responded to this mews with a very large blank, so I said the first thing that came to mind. "No can do, Chief." I muttered. "Bowels are empty, nothing to evacuate. Donde esta frijoles." Then things clicked back into focus. The three cops in riot gear were examining -- but not touching -- a big ugly blue backpack. The third Lost Boy's backpack.

"Hey," I said to Mr. Orange. "That's not a bomb, you stupid asshole. It's just some homeless kid's dirty laundry. He'll be back for it in a minute."

"We can't take that chance, sir." he turned his nose up. "Now if you don't leave, right now, I'll have you arrested." This was getting creepy.

"For what?" I challenged, standing up. I looked down at the top of the little fucker's orange head.

He gulped, then glared. "I'll think of something!" he said plaintively.

Fine. I left Coffee Plantation; couldn't go out onto Mill. Police Do Not Cross tape and traffic cones had hastily been erected up and down most of the street. I ambled down to the corner of Mill and Seventh, then into Borders, ignoring a whiney voice calling "Siiir! Siiiiiiiir!" Fuck 'em.

I've since found out that the Bomb Squad detonated the Lost Boy's laundry (I sincerely hope they enjoyed the smell) and arrested him on charges of Public Endangerment. Public fucking endangerment, ladies and gentlemen. Which is why the very next time I see an executive leave his briefcase at his table, or see a little college kid leave his gym bag to save his seat, or see a bicycle patrol officer step away from his bike (with that nifty little frame bag) I will immediately dal 911. Because you just never can be too fucking careful, right kids?

[Tom_Aurum]

Ah yes, america's favorite miscarraige of justice. Tempe, Arizona. I knew it eventually would come to that. Pretty soon we should be watching out for being asked these questions in a court of law or congress.

"Are you now or have you ever been a Terrorist?"

"Have you ever knowingly associated with a terrorist?"

"Are you a card carrying member of any terrorist or subversive group?"

I'm just waiting.

[Raoul Duke, Jr.]

Ah yes, america's favorite miscarraige of justice. Tempe, Arizona. I knew it eventually would come to that. Pretty soon we should be watching out for being asked these questions in a court of law or congress.

"Are you now or have you ever been a Terrorist?"

"Have you ever knowingly associated with a terrorist?"

"Are you a card carrying member of any terrorist or subversive group?"

I'm just waiting.

At the risk of sounding like a right-wing nutcake, I don't mind things going in that direction -- but the point is, they've gone too far. Vigilance is fine, but we're in paranoia country... the danger is this: when vigilance becomes paranoia, even vigilance is stigmatized, and then we really need to worry.

[Frank Hipper]

Should I ever find myself out and about in civilisation again, I shall follow that lead, Raoul!

[Arrow]

Wow, are things really that bad out that way? I live fairly close to DC and work near a military base and we aren't that parnoid. Of course, it could be that we have Cobras and Blackhawks constantly flying around, ready to pounce on anything.

[Raoul Duke, Jr.]

Well, all I can do is chronicle the stupidity -- the reasons behind the stupidity I leave it to my gentle readers to deduce.

[Raoul Duke, Jr.]

Okay, kids, this one's pretty ambitious, and I'm still compiling notes and arranging them so they make sense. This is here in this state only because I want to know if you want to hear the whole story.

Walking With Ghosts:

Seven Days In The Shadow Of The American Dream

DAY ONE: The New Huck Finn Lights Out


It's cold in the desert at 5:00 A.M. I never knew how cold. I've left the apartment beaehind, left the bike, the truck. I've even left the Seiko sitting on the nightstand. My only concessions to civilization are the Zippo in my pocket, the cigarette case full of Camels, a pad and pen... and a sleeping bag. I'm crazy enough to do this, certainly, but I'm not stupid enough to freeze to death. Well, perhaps freeze to death is a touch melodramatic -- but oh, shit, it's cold out here.

By the time I reach the Methodist Church where I am to meet James and Meredith, the sun is flaring over the broken plain of the eastern horizon. I'm a little nervous about the Methodist Church's provision of showers -- is it one at a time, or a sort of group thing, like back in high school? I was never comfortable with that arrangement -- my attitude is that nobody checks out the goods without paying admission...

I approach the peach-colored building, and there they are... gaggles of them; a few Lost Boys, but mostly Lifers -- Lost Boys once, for whom life in the alleys and liquor stores became first survivable, then manageable and finally, terminally, comfortable.

I navigate past them while they laugh and chatter among themselves. There's a glass door, behind which I can make out more people, and among the crowd I see Meredith's Shirley Temple-ish head of curly blond hair. I step inside. Immediately, there's a nostril-wrenching blast of fetid air. I almost turn away, but gulp in a fresh lungful of outer air instead and press on...

The room is open, but not precisely spacious under these conditions. Half a dozen small round tables are attended by filled chairs, their occupants engaged in lively, if periodically incoherent, conversation. A pair of couches demarcate another area which the clientele obediently does not enter...

I spot a large, institutional coffeemaker, and make my way toward it. I haven't had breakfast this morning -- not even a "Brooklyn Breakfast" of coffee and cigarette, and whatever's in that cumbersome yellow pot with the red electric eye smells suspiciously like wake-up juice.

"Are you here for a shower?" a voice asks from just off the starboard bow. A petite but somehow tough-looking elderly lady smiles up at me. Her name, I will discover later, is Gretchen -- and if I believed in angels, I would now believe that they sometimes come with a few wrinkles thrown in for character.

"Yes." I nod. "A shower sounds great. Is that... coffee... in there?"
"We call it that." she chuckles, nodding her silvered head. Then she sets my mind to rest about the arrangements, "You'll have to wait your turn for the shower. Let me put your name down." I give her my name gratefully, and she in turn dispenses a styrofoam coffee cup and a plate heaped tall with something hot and brown that smells vaguely like Rice-A-Roni. I'm not entirely sure what it tastes like.

My turn comes up -- I am handed a towel and directed to the restroom marked, "Ladies." Shrug. Why not? I emerge fifteen minutes later, still dabbing cold water out of my hair. Well, at least everything else is now warm by comparison to the shower.

James is up next, and we agree to leave after he's gone through the icicle-maker. Meredith is happily chattering with a scruffy kid they call Sparky about a card game called "Magic.". Something about graveyards and zombies... meaningless.

The news is on -- NBC is reporting Iraqi soldiers feigning surrender, then opening fire. I am simultaneously angered and amused. Someone behind me mutters, "Stupid fuckers! Stomp 'em all!" A grumble of agreement is heard, then someone farts. Someone else laughs. I lower my head to the table.

I must've dozed off, because the next thing I remember is being tapped on the shoulder. I raise my head, momentarily disoriented by the brightness of the room, the drone of a newscaster. James looks down at me. "You ready, dude?" Meredith is standing there, looking anxious.

"Yeah." I push myself to my feet, noting the ache in my lower back. "Where to?"

"Starvation Army. It's about ten, so they've probably got dog-nuts by now." Starvation Army -- or Salvation Army, as it is known to the world at large -- receives donations of Entenmann's pastries every Monday, Wednesday and Friday, I am told. This will prove very handy, as one of the crucial omissions from my accessories on this assignment is my wallet. No identification, and certainly no cash or debit card. In short, no cheating.

The walk to Starvation Army from the "Meth Church" is just over three blocks, but with the sleeping bag it feels much longer.

"You want to stash that somewhere?" James asks.
"Yeah... all right." I agree. "You know of a good place?"
"As a matter of fact, I do." he says; he's begun building a cigarette, cowboy style, while we're walking. "Coffee Plant."
"Huh." I had no idea...

Shelley, the attendant at the Salvation Army, is friendly, though brisk. "Doughnuts?" She needs no prompting on seeing James and Meredith. "I guess you want doughnuts, too, huh?" she asks me.

We approach a table at Coffee Plant just as the Minimum-Purchase Nazi is ambling in the other direction. Good timing.

I stash my sleeping bag, as directed, under a shelf in a small outdoor coffee service which, I am told, hasn't been used for months. It's a snug fit, and I am a little worried that the bright blue synthetic shell of the bag will be visible, but I am assured no one will notice.

We sit, pop open the Entenmann's boxes, and proceed to devour. Mine are "Old-Fashioned Glazed"... heh. I can't suppress a small smile.

"What's up?" James asks, noting my expression.
"Never mind, man." I tell him around a mouthful of doughnut. "Tell you all about it later."

I spend about half an hour here... eventually, the other kids from the Meth Church showers arrive, and a game of Magic commences... nothing of interest here, except that the Minimum Purchase Nazi comes through again... but this time accompanied by Isaiah, the night shift TEAM supervisor.

I've known Isaiah for a little over a year. Minimum Purchase looks in my direction -- no mug in front of me. She starts toward me. Well, fuck. No purchase, and no money to purchase anything with. She's got me this time... or not. Isaiah has been rattling off something at her as they approached, and as she starts to pull away, he says, "Are you paying attention?" Her expression is priceless -- like the look on a Doberman's face when it hits the end of the chain -- eyes bulged throat working overtime but no sound comes out... Isaiah tosses a small wave in our direction.

I tell James and Meredith that I'm taking off for awhile... and it's down to the Graffiti Shop to see Osiris. The Graffiti Shop is Tempe's oldest and best head sh... ahem, pardon me -- purveyors of fine tobacco products, jewelry and clothing. Osiris, as always, was dressed in black (including straitjacket) smoking a Marlboro, and watching a DVD.

"What'cha watching?" I asked as I descended the last two stairs into the store.
"What's up, man." he said, nodding at my image in the mirror beneath the chained television set. "Watchin' Snatch. Somebody left it down here."

I watched the rest of the film with Osiris, almost forgetting that I was on assignment... not to worry, though -- there was plenty of reminder on its way.

I leave Graffiti Shop just in time to see the sun vanish beneath the horizon. I am hungry. The doughnuts are gone -- with James and Meredith, who assured me they had somewhere to stash them. Unfortunately, James and Meredith are not to be found. The temperature is dropping again, and I'm thinking of calling the whole thing off.

I can't do that. No cheating. No backing out, no pussy-assed retreat. These kids do this day in and day out -- some of them simply have no fucking choice, and I will not turn my tail and run like a fucking coward. But something has to be done about food...

"Why dont'cha try sp'angin'?" Sparky advises. "Sp'anging," as the Lost Boys refer to it, is shorthand for "spare some change?" -- panhandling, and it's something they do every day. Some do it for alcohol, some for drugs... rarely, they do it for what they say they need the money for. Food, a hotel room with a shower, clean socks. Things that we take for granted, these kids consider crucial.

I stand there, under a streetlight across from the vacant building that used to be a Wells FArgo lobby, for about half an hour before I got up the stones to ask for spare change for the first time. There is no feeling so degrading, so humiliating, as to entreat a total stranger for their spare coin change.

The only worse feeling possible is when that person berates you for it. "Are you kidding?!" the fat man in the flannel shirt demands to know. "You're dressed better than me!" That depends on your idea of high fashion, I reflect. In a greasy orange t-shirt, painter's jeans with a hole in the knee, and a brown leather bomber jacket, he might be right. Or it might be the fact that he's round that kills his panache. He goes on, "I work for a living! I don't need to hear some fuckin' bum askin' fuh my change! Get a job, ya worthless piece of shit!"

Suffice it to say, I'm not hungry after that tirade. And what could I say? He was in the right -- I had to right to ask him for anything. But as bad as I feel, I have to stand out here in the cold wind, under the antiseptic orange glare of this streetlight, and wonder what it's like for them -- for the Regulators and the Lost Boys, who do this day in and day out. I give up on sp'anging. Besides the fact that my first effort was utterly demoralizing, panhandling is illegal, and King Lardo The Gut just made a hell of a scene. I'd rather not see the denouement.

Midnight rolls around, and we're all still here at Coffee Plant. I have no idea where I'll sleep tonight, and for what must be the 12th time today, I consider -- and dismiss -- the idea of just calling this off, going home, and forgetting all about this nightmare.

James lugs my sleeping bag over. "Roll out, man. You look tired."
I blink at him, confused. "What... here?"
"Yeah." he says. Behind him, Meredith is rolling out a blanket on the hard bricks. "The Plant's closed, man. There won't be anyone here until TEAM rolls through at 7."

Hungry, tired and with no other options, I roll out the bag next to the wall. Sparky, James and an older guy they simply call Gomez provide cover by sitting at the nearest table.

I wake up twice... once when a large yellow Lab wanders back and forth beside me, sniffing my face... again, when a smallish grey cat curls up next to me... and then it's into the REM zone for this unhappy but determined adventurer.

And the evening and the morning were the First Day.

[LadyTevar]

Okay, kids, this one's pretty ambitious, and I'm still compiling notes and arranging them so they make sense. This is here in this state only because I want to know if you want to hear the whole story.

Walking With Ghosts:

DAY ONE: The New Huck Finn Lights Out


It's cold in the desert at 5:00 A.M. I never knew how cold. I've left the apartment behind, left the bike, the truck. I've even left the Seiko sitting on the nightstand. My only concessions to civilization are the Zippo in my pocket, the cigarette case full of Camels, a pad and pen... and a sleeping bag. I'm crazy enough to do this, certainly, but I'm not stupid enough to freeze to death. Well, perhaps freeze to death is a touch melodramatic -- but oh, shit, it's cold out here.

By the time I reach the Methodist Church where I am to meet James and Meredith, the sun is flaring over the broken plain of the eastern horizon. I'm a little nervous about the Methodist Church's provision of showers -- is it one at a time, or a sort of group thing, like back in high school? I was never comfortable with that arrangement -- my attitude is that nobody checks out the goods without paying admission...

I approach the peach-colored building, and there they are... gaggles of them; a few Lost Boys, but mostly Lifers -- Lost Boys once, for whom life in the alleys and liquor stores became first survivable, then manageable and finally, terminally, comfortable.

I navigate past them while they laugh and chatter among themselves. There's a glass door, behind which I can make out more people, and among the crowd I see Meredith's Shirley Temple-ish head of curly blond hair. I step inside. Immediately, there's a nostril-wrenching blast of fetid air. I almost turn away, but gulp in a fresh lungful of outer air instead and press on...

More More!!!

[Raoul Duke, Jr.]

Watch the above post for edits as I get the notes organized...

[Raoul Duke, Jr.]

Got to break for lunch, kids, but I'll have Day One[/i] done by sometime tonight. I plan to do this with each day split into its own article. That's for your convenience and mine, because each day is going to run 200-300 words, and that's about as much as I think I would want to read at any given time, so I won't ask more than that of you.

[Raoul Duke, Jr.]

Okay, everybody give me thoughts on Day One.

Day Two will be up in... a day or two.

[Raoul Duke, Jr.]

. . . . . <crickets chirping> . . . And the crowd went mild... :p

[Raoul Duke, Jr.]

Well, then! On to...

Day Two: The Queen of Craterville


I am being born. There is sudden, bitter cold... searing light in my face. "Hey. Get up." No, this is not birth, after all. Just more consequences of it.
"Whaa." I declare in a sleep-clogged voice. "Murph doo whaa." Somehow, that isn't quite what I meant to say to the man in the black shirt. Black shirt! I look again -- no badge, but the TEAM triangle logo is there.

"Dude, we gotta go, man." James is rousting Meredith out of the blanket. I look around -- we're surrounded by Lost Boys in various states of consciousness. Well, there you have it.

"We would've been fine if 13 fucking people hadn't shown up." James confides as we amble down the pre-dawn sidewalk with our gear. Meredith, barely on her feet, resembles a little china-doll puppet which has somehow learned to walk without strings. A crow crosses our path, loosing a mournful cry. Ice wind gusts, reddening my cheeks. This sucks.

"Is the church open?" I ask, damning the too-hopeful edge in my voice.
"That's only Mondays and Fridays." Meredith says through clenched teeth, shivering in the blanket wrapped around her tiny shoulders.
"So what do we do?" I ask.
James's answer is, of course, completely logical... "We walk."

And we walk. And we walk. "Where the hell are we going?" I ask finally, my feet aching.
"Craterville." James says.
"Oh, that place?" Meredith perks up. She does a little dance. "The place with the--"
"Yeah." James nods, gives her a little one-arm hug. "See, Craterville used to be some rich guy's house, but it burned down a few years ago and he just moved away, I guess. The only thing left now is parts of the foundation. Somebody thought it looked kinda like a bomb crater."

Craterville is, indeed, as advertised. Nothing pretty, but with my new-found awareness of security issues, I do appreciate the cover provided by the partial foundation walls still standing. It's obviously been abandoned for years -- grass has invaded what would've been a swimming pool, split and cracked and crawled its way through once-solid concrete slabs. It's not the Hilton, but for my purposes, it's home... for as long as it lasts.

We stow our gear in concrete cubbies -- what may once have been basement shelving, concrete boses open on one side stand silent, gloomy sentry duty in random locations across Craterville. I pack my sleeping bag into one -- snug fit -- while James and Meredith pack their modest belongings into a slightly larger model.

I tell them I have to take care of something, and we resolve to meet at Coffee Plant this evening. Without a watch amongst us, a rendezvous is a vague, catch-as-catch-can proposition... but I will try.

The hunger I've been suffering since last night has turned to a dull ache punctuated by not-so-dull pangs now, and today is Tuesday -- no pastries from Starvation Army. I rub my chin, trying to think, and discover that my skin is already rough with bristle.

But it's too early to try to sp'ange... and I'm still not quite ready to try again after last night's first miserable failure. I remember an old trick from college. My spirit sinks just thinking about doing it -- but god dammit, I've got to do something...

I stroll into the Burger King on University, and take a look around. Someone looks up from their table, locks eyes with me and goes back to eating. In my current sleep-deprived state, I'm not sure if that's a "normal" reaction or not. Did they notice the 5 o'clock shadow? Did they notice that I'm not wearing any deodorant? Did they notice that my hair's got a strand of, what the hell is that? Lint, in it? I toss the unwanted adornment aside in disgust, and approach the counter.

"My yelp you?" the clerk asks? What? She stares at me in consternation. Oh. When she asks again, I recognize a thick Mexican accent. "May I help you?"

"Yes!" I feign polite irritation myself. "May I speak to your manager, please?"
"Yest a secon." she waddles away, and is momentarily replaced by a chubby guy in a white shirt who looks almost as disheveled as I do.

"Wha can I do for you?" he wants to know.
"Well," I start my practiced but now-rusty old starving college kid routine. "I just needed to let you know that I came in last night on my lunch break and ordered a..." Crap! Crap! Look at the menu, what do you want?! "--a number four. Well, by the time I got my food, I had to use the restroom, and when I got back, they'd cleared off my table!" I don't give him a chance to ask the question he so obviously wants to ask. "Well, I was in there for like ten minutes, you know, cheese does that to you sometimes, but like, I only got a couple bites of the burger and, like, only a few fries, you know?" I very pointedly do not ask him to do anything about this. After all, I want that to be his idea.

He stares at me like a cow staring at a payphone. For a full 30 seconds. A car horn blares outside. A lonely paper something-or-other goes rolling and jumping down the street. I stare back, with absolute conviction that I am about to get 86'ed from Burger King and dragged away by the Fast Food Gestapo, some wild-eyed freak raving about fries and cheese-inspired constipation.

"Would you lie me to replaze that sir?" he finally asks with a sigh.
"Yes!" I shoot back. Then, more calmly, "Yes. That would be fine."

The hours until nightfall pass slowly... there is nothing to do but sit at Coffee Plantation and watch women walk by -- women who, in this state, would very likely not even desanitize themselves to hock their divine lungers upon my unhallowed flesh. In reality, I'm actually not all that badly off yet, certainly not as bruised, bloodied and muddied as I'll be before this thing is all over, but it feels that way already.

It's just before sunset now -- golden-orange glare stabs at my eyes from the polarized windows of the Chase Building as I make my way into the Centerpoint courtyard.

"Hey, Reporter Man!" one of the Lost Boys calls out. I have no idea, at first, who he's talking to.
"Hey, boss, what's up?" James asks from a table I almost walk right by.
"Oh. Hey." I'm feeling much better after the Double Whopper, fries and coke, but I'm still not entirely myself. I'm out of cigarettes, but I don't realize that until after I've pulled my case from the brush-pocket of my jeans, opened it up, and poked a finger inside for a smoke that isn't there.

"You got a smoke, man?" I ask James.
He regards me with a strange expression I can't decipher. "Yeah." he says brightly. "Gimme a second." I amble wearily over to another table where an empty chair is keeping a trendy young couple with neatly-coiffed hair company.

"Anybody using this?" I indicate the chair. The woman, a pretty young redhead, instantly hikes her nose up an inch or two and looks away simultaneously, a move reminiscent of someone who's just been hit in the face with a flying, loaded diaper. The guy with her, looking mildly embarrassed to respond, mutters, "No, take it." I do, feeling my mood worsen. What? Did they need the chair to rest their fucking attitudes on? Oh, Christ, I feel that sinking feeling again, something Not Good is going on here, man... get a grip.

It's 11:30 now. Games of Magic have been played. Notes have been taken, then lost, then taken again from retellings. This screws the accuracy slightly, but I'll sweat that later. For now, it's off to Craterville.

We hop the low, broken wall, and we're back. We make our way stealthily through low brush, over crazily angled, broken white slabs in the dark, through tangles of thorns. I will discover, sometime later, that I have ripped the back of my left hand rather neatly. For now, the adrenaline of the fear of capture and arrest are blocking everything except the sound of my own heartbeat in my ears.

As I lay here, warm if not precisely comfortable in this bag, I hear soft footsteps. My pulse starts again, my breath catches in my throat. I await the passing flash of a MagLite, the stutter and squawk of a radio. Nothing. Only, "Mew?"

I turn my head, and look into a pair of sly golden-green eyes. "Hello." I whisper.
"What's that?" Meredith lifts her head from James's sleep-slowed chest.
"Cat." I whisper back. "Ssshh."

The cat rests a tentative paw on the shell of my bag, takes another tentative step. "Mew?" I make no move to touch it. It's clearly been stray for a long time, judging by the tangled, matted black fur, and it may be feral. Rabies is rare, but it's a fate I'm unwilling to tempt. But the cat, actually, seems pretty normal -- certainly as functional as any of the humans who have invaded her territory.

She nuzzles her cheek against my forehead, and hunkers down, still staring at me. This is kinda creepy... I think, and then there is the evening, and the morning, and these are the second day.

[LadyTevar]

Well, then! On to...

Day Two:

"We would've been fine if 13 fucking people hadn't shown up." James confides as we amble down the pre-dawn sidewalk with our gear. Meredith, barely on her feet, resembles a little china-doll puppet which has somehow learned to walk without strings. A crow crosses our path, loosing a mournful cry. Ice wind gusts, reddening my cheeks. This sucks.

"Is the church open?" I ask, damning the too-hopeful edge in my voice.
"That's only Mondays and Fridays." Meredith says through clenched teeth, shivering in the blanket wrapped around her tiny shoulders.
"So what do we do?" I ask.
James's answer is, of course, completely logical... "We walk."

But where are you walking? Come on! More, you're leaving me hanging here

[Raoul Duke, Jr.]

But where are you walking? Come on! More, you're leaving me hanging here

It's coming, it's coming! (Get a towel!) Don't worry, the notes take time to process on something -- there's a week's worth of them, after all! What did you think of Day One?

[Raoul Duke, Jr.]

Day Two is up!

[Baron Mordo]

Wow. This is great! The way you've written everything is very evocative. Kudos!