"Alright listen, 'cause I got a special treat for you. It starts off kinda quiet so everyone just relax, take a few deep breaths, think about your eventual end and what's gonna happen tonight, and I'll try to do something good to your head." I called you up to anoint the Earth, I called you to announce sadness falling like burned skin, I called you to wish you well, to glory in self like a new monster, and now I call on you to pray. Always a playground instructor, never a killer.

So this is some Zen and psychological ramblings of mine set to a story, I hope you like it but I'd like your feedback anyway.

DISCLAIMER OH SHI-I own nothing. Neither do you.

The Bad Plus - 1972 Bronze Medallist

12:27 AM. Blistering midday sunlight beams down on the Texas countryside. The highway is a stark grey contrast to the surprisingly colourful scenery; purples, pinks and greens overshadow the otherwise sandy terrain. The only sounds are of tires ripping one hundred and fourteen miles an hour down the road, dust and pebbles flying in my wake as Led-Zeppelin II roars out of the cheap car stereo, the bass and drums sound gritty and out of tune, however this was the best car that could be found on such short notice in the cool Mexican evening. I've been travelling from city to city Jack Kerouac style for the last ninety days or so; meeting people, philosophizing, drinking, and smoking cannabis the likes of which I had never known in America. No complaints, no regrets, all but new memories.

No more than a few hours ago the border cop had squinted at me from behind his aviators, asked some routine questions and, after I declared only a single quart of tequila, sent me on my merry way. I conveniently neglected to mention the other three bottles, six ounces of grass, nine hits of acid, three remaining pellets of mescalin and the nine peyote buttons that I had gained access to thanks to a close friend who had trekked out into the Mexican desert to gather them for me. The trip seemed to be cursed from the beginning however, with Dean and his new wife, and poor Stan. What a doll Stan is, it's such a shame that fever of his made him cut out in a Mexico City hospital to recover before even two days of being in the country.

All that remains unaccounted for now is the bag of cocaine that is lost somewhere in the car. That's not for my use however, I only procured it to exploit capitalism all the way to Denver. In all honesty, I would much rather have lost the cocaine than my LSD. I hardly believed it when Carlo called me the other day (or was it year?) and told me about his link to some antique Point Richmond acid from 1966. I could have kissed the disease-ridden public telephone for hearing something so unexpected and too-good-to-be-true. So I picked up a dozen Sunshine blotters on the way to Carlo's home in Denver; in a questionable hazy kind of mindset, mind you.

My hair whips and flails around my face in a messy halo as the gale force wind is drawn through the cracked windows of the teal pickup truck. We groan along the smooth tar and the expanse of the gentle curves in the road and without warning, she begins to sputter and choke. I curse my misfortune and pull onto the shoulder lane. Then I catch a glimpse of the fuel gauge, "Oh that's extremely fucking helpful." My voice has the consistency of rumbling tides and texture of wet gravel, make of it what you will. I don't mind so much, mostly because it seems to be my Karma for some other goings-on, I like the sound of it anyway.

Evidently I must have messed with balance because the tank being empty seems to be my doing too. Either this is an occurrence of Karmic justice, or I have been taken for a fool by exchanging an ounce of grass for the use of a vehicle without bothering to check the state of the gas tank.

I sigh slowly. It will not do me any favours to waste time and energy harping on unchangeable circumstances. I swear again and snatch the trembling keys out of the ignition. "And this too will pass."

I heave my last aggravated sigh and go to shove the keys into my brown leather messenger bag, but my fingers hover over the bronze clasp as a thought enters my mind. Pausing for a second to think of the possible consequences, the one that jumps to the forefront of my mind is that I will become hopelessly lost and lose track of the car, it being the most convenient method of my return to Carlo's in Denver. With a shrug and an excited peal of laughter I weigh my options out and dig enthusiastically in the bag, fumbling my way blindly through its contents until my fingers close around a small salt-shaker. I spin the tin cap off with ease and extract two thin sheets of Owsley Purple. And placing them gently on my tongue I shut my mouth, sucking in my cheeks in anticipation before I screw the cap back on the shaker and stuff it safely back in its nook. I swing the bag around my head and I trap a lock of hair that tickles the crook of my neck. After flinging the door open with a reproachful creak, I hop out excitedly and swing the door shut, not bothering to lock it.

The gravel crunches under my moccasins to my childish satisfaction as I saunter down the side of the road to find a gas station. The only other noise is of bugs buzzing languidly, and loudly, in the heat. Jittery and sweating, I wonder briefly about the last time I had seen this highway, nearly three months ago. I recall that Eddie had decided to stay in Juarez with Tereasa, a silk haired Mexican native, whom he claimed to love. I had smiled earnestly and wished them well. He said he would marry her underneath a waterfall, both of them naked in the moonlight as they exchange vows of undying love, I was invited of course, but I regretfully declined so I could get a head start back home.

I enjoy the coarse feel of denim rubbing my thighs and unconsciously pick up my pace. When the rays of harsh sunlight whistle as they beat down on the road, the landscape in front of my eyes wavers, a hallucination from either the acid or the intense heat, there's no way to be sure, I enjoy it nonetheless. And humming a nonsensical tune in time with the sunlight I skip to the nearest sign of civilization: a carnival inspired building plastered with posters promising freaks of nature and fried chicken of the highest calibre, courtesy of a Captain Spaulding. The neon bright sign on the roof beckons, a shining beacon of madness in the middle of the day.

Calling out as I enter the main building, "Excuse meee..." It was at about this time I took note of the most unusual surroundings; the geometric shapes that grow spontaneously into immense statues, brightly adorned with jewels, although these seem unintentional pieces of the decor. The faces on the Wall of Shame wink at me and flicker in their frames and I stumble, enamoured, in the direction of the cash register.

What happened next is a horrible thing to happen to one on a head full of high quality LSD. A clown, in full makeup, jumps from some adjacent curtains, his grimy teeth are bared in what he meant to seem like a friendly gesture of welcome. It was misinterpreted, however, as an evil clown baring pointed and bloody teeth as if to say "I'll be eating your soul now, come closer!" With eyes as wide as dinner plates and my hair standing on end I back away in horror, blindly feeling for a way out.

"Aw man, look at this fucking clown!" I say miserably. I know it's a trip, but it's some trip.

He looks at me with disdain. "Whatsa matter with clowns?"

"Everything. But only when they want to eat your soul. And it's Wednesday." Still, moving backwards turns out to be the bane of my existence and I trip loudly and messily over a snag in the carpet and fall flat on my ass. My head jumps back in reflex and smacks off a pedestal. The clown laughs idly at my misfortune and I rub my temples.

"Need a hand?"

I shake my head. "I think I'll just stew over here for a minute... What is happening to my Karma, for fucks sake..." I add, questioning myself. The next second I've become distracted and the question is forgotten. "Uh," My articulate speech fails me. "Can I get a tow truck err something my car crapped out a mile or two back on the highwaaaaay..."

"Yeah yeah no problem. Lemme jus' make a call." He disappears behind the curtains and I''m alone, ghastly alone, with my depraved thoughts. I'm talking, more muttering, to myself instructions or the like, any old thought I (or it) twist into a conspiracy and chicken-fried steak. My mouth and eyes move rapidly and I twitch and the clown returns, unnoticed by myself in my imagination. I mumble a snatch of song,

"Across the stream with wooden shoes, bells to tell the king the news, a thousand misty riders glide up high up once upon a time. Wondering and dreaming, the words have different meeeaaaaniiiing. Yaaas theeeeey diiid-ah..."

He almost says something, then thinks better of it and shuts his mouth to leave me rambling. My line of sight glides over my surroundings without a moment of peace, he must have been watching intently because I hear no shifting, though there is faint phlegmy breathing.

"Uh." The noise ends my trance and I glance up. "Didja wanta buy some chicken or were you plannin' to spend the day sittin' on y'r ass watchin' the wind blow?"

"Heh, well while that does sound like a fantastic way to spend an afternoooon, it's never a bad time for chicken." I make a show of standing upright, my arms flail in wide circles in an exaggerated attempt to find equilibrium. When the ground no longer melts beneath my feet (an impossibly long time) I find my way to the counter again. "So chicken?"

He studies me with narrowed eyes then bends to retrieve something, opening a cabinet that looses a wave of heat which I feel before I even know what he is doing. When he rises again he holds a melting paper bag out to me. He holds it aloft for a full minute before I say, "And what the fuck am I supposed to do with that?"

He's annoyed with my antics, it's understandable to be completely honest. "Wouldja quit fuckin' around and just take the bag?"

My hands fly up in exaggerated surrender. "Alright man, alright... but how?"

"Don't waste my time kid," He warns me.

To extend my arm and reach for the bag is simple enough, but how am I expected to hold on to the damn thing? Wet chunks plop harmlessly on the floor, if I outright grab the thing it would easily slide out of my grasp, which would anger the clown. And there is no reason to make a clown angry. My hands go through a dozen motions of possibilities and I pull a face in twisted concentration.

Finally, my fingers close over a crinkly substance they then rapidly jerk back into my chest. I cradle it awkwardly and ask how long the truck will be. He tells me and I shift forward conspiratorially. "How does one waste time exactly? Time doesn't give two shits what you do with how much of it you get to experience, so is it even possible?"

He leans towards me and patronizes me, "Well, asking stupid questions is one way."

"Haha-" I cough shortly, then rummage through my bag for some loose cash. "Hey, do you take pesos by any chance?"

"Nope."

I shrug. "How 'bout if I pay you in acid?"

He scoffs then double takes rather suddenly. "You yankin' my chain, kid?" Then, "Good acid?"

I over-dramatically motion him to lean forward with my index finger. "What's it look like?" Spaulding's expression shifts from curiosity and confusion to a splitting grin that rips across his grease-painted face. Rivulets of sweat have carved canyons in the thick paste smeared across his face, his grin brings this to my stretched attention.

"Well can I see it?"

I'm already looking for the salt-shaker, "What's your favorite colour, man?"

"Yellow."

I whistle and intone enviously, "Excellent choice. Might I introduce you to my good friend Mr. Sunshine? Have you two met before?" I offer him the pale sheet of LSD and he places it on his tongue without hesitation, only an incredulous chuckle.

"You think the tow truck guy accepts blotters as payment too?"

"I tell you what," He smacks his hands on the register and it pops open with a metallic clink. "I can change up them pesos for some cash, how much ya got?"

"Jesus Christ, man, don't make me count all that out, just give me enough for the truck and the chicken and we'll call it even, okay? Actually wouldja mind throwing in a pack of smokes?" I sit on the floor and begin the task of sifting the money out of hiding. Coins and crumpled notes fall to the ground and when I have it all collected I shove it across the counter in a heap.

"Chicken's on the house, don't worry about it. Ha ha shit," He titters to himself, "It's days like this that make me glad I came to work. How is it that you come to find yourself all the way out here? Drivin' across country all by yourself?"

I grin absently. "Pretty much summed it up there. I been in Mexico for the last three-ish months, I just got back today."

"You gotta place to stay tonight? Or you gonna drive through the night?"

"I dunno, I'm just gonna take whatever comes my way."

"Well if you want to join the family for some dinner 'fore ya go, you're welcome to come," He offers.

My smile brightens at this show of hospitality and I graciously accept. I think it's a horrible turn of events that one can no longer depend solely on the generosity of the good-natured stranger. I'm beginning to lose faith in my own species.

The arrival of the tow truck signals my return to the world, I traipse out the door and hastily pay the big man with the truck. I send him a smile and a dreamy wave as he leaves and immediately begin searching for the cocaine in any area I could reach. Behind the mirrors, under carpeting, seats, glove boxes, and it's not until I'm kneeling on the drivers side of the floor that I spy an bit of plastic held behind the gas pedal with an elastic. I let out a great whoop of joy and in my excitement my shoulder ricochets off the steering wheel. I kick the door open then fill the tank; the raw smell of gasoline pools in my nostrils and for a second or two, it's my whole world. My eyelids flutter dreamily and my body begins to sway. I can see Spaulding through a clear patch of window; he's on the phone and still grinning like a fool.