Taliban Cafe III

My Jinni's comfort me by serving breakfast and start preparing the opium pipe. I sit there surrounded by infinite exotic pleasure, head in my hands and realize all of this happened for a definite purpose. I am here for a particular reason unknown to me. It's something big-time and ugly for sure, because no one receives this amount of pleasure over a blackjack win unless there's something attached to it. My Jinni's see me in contemplation and tell me that they're very happy to be servants of mine and that they can provide me with anything I desire. I pull on the opium pipe long and hard and ask, "Did I really play blackjack with Dick Cheney and George Herbert Walker Bush?" As the warmth of the opium starts to take hold and overcome me with cool and soothing euphoria, she responds, "By the way, my name is Ophelia and this is my sister Mary-Catherine, and yes, you did play blackjack with Dick, George Sr., Karl Wolfowitz and Donald Rumsfeld. We like to refer to him as Rummy, he's a real bastard!" I immediately apologize for my poor manners and re-light the opium pipe to fulfill my need for some sort of sanity. As I try and make some kind of sense out of all of this madness they bath and dress me in a silk white outfit and paisley designed red velvet robe. It was weird but quite comfortable. I begin to ask them, "Do you hang out withe these degenerate assholes or what?" Mary-Catherine replies, "We were Dick's Jinni's, we had no choice in the matter. He won us in another rigged blackjack game from that little queer Senator Mark Foley, and it's been hell ever since!" I then ask Ophelia, "So you know Dick Cheney personally, his habits, likes, and dislikes?" She replies, "Oh yes my savior, he's a filthy, careless, degenerate gambler that needs to be stopped!" Tell me more Ophelia. She replies,"He's an annoying narcissistic schmuck that is followed around by a team of medical specialists 24/7, constantly monitoring his heart condition. Their main concern is his poor diet. For breakfast he eats four over easy eggs, one pound of Boars Head bacon, slung corned beef hash saturated in bacon grease, two garlic and onion bagels, smeared with scallion and vegetable cream cheese and washes it all down with a full pot of espresso coffee. His snacks between lunch consist of liberally soaked shrimp toast, mesquite barbecued pork rhines dipped in sour cream and onion sauce, while constantly smoking foot long Cuban cigars while sipping cold opal Sambuca, babbling incoherently regarding impacts on his stocks of oil, gold, and diamond markets." Well this news doesn't surprise me. His diet would make a fawn in the morning dew turn rabid and callous. As the opium pipe is passed around and shared, I ask Mary-Catherine if she would like to corroborate these crazy innuendos. Ophelia, clearly upset yells,"This is not innuendo! We are Jinni's and unfortunately this is the God ugly truth!" I back off as it is obvious they have a lot of frustrations to air regarding Mr. Dick. So I just sit back, smoke heartily and listen. "Go ahead Mary-Catherine, you seem like you have a lot on your mind. I'm all ears." She replies," Ophelia is being nice in regards to Mr. Cheney. He drinks that Opal Sambuca in the afternoons and Cognac at night. He stammers around, drunk and nasty, bitching about his market fluctuations wielding Aldous Huxley's Brave New World, re-reading it in a seduced state of obsessive compulsive disorder. His heroes are Rommel the desert fox, representing military valor. Rasputin for his seductive magnetism, and his great love for Hollywood's American gigolo, now Buddhist convert, Richard Gere. His behavior has reached obscene levels. At times his drunkenness would get so diluted he would beg to get tied up and buggered by Richard Gere impersonators then turn on them, sadistically torturing them by a severe whipping, using the American Flag and a springed Billy as his preferred weapons." "Mr. Cheney is a carnivore drafting the master plan by his High Priest, George Bush Sr." "He gets things done as a pivotal architect in the diabolical dissension into The New World Order! A dedicated, loyal Big Daddy warrior bent on government controlled chaos, anarchy, and destruction! He carries on like he's some immortal Greek God gnawing on blood sausage and Greek olives sucking the Sambuca straight from the bottle spitting the olives pits on his parquet teak wood floor like marbles as his aides break their asses on the pristine waxed flooring." " His aides never complain or speak of him in a disparaging manner. They fear him. Fear is synonymous with respect. Remember, he's Big Daddy's right hand man, completely untouchable as his dirty work is hermetically sealed in the American flag." " Even in hiding he can be spotted in a local D.C. pizza pit, gorging himself with pineapple ricotta cheese slices, dripping grease down his satin tie, throwing the leftover crusts to his loyal gang of Doberman Pincher's that constantly hump the legs of his secret service aides. He is the devil incarnate!"

Taliban Cafe II "Black Jack"

I was awoken by the sweet aroma of smoked opium wafting through the cold cave air where I found myself comfortably warm in a bed of soft, red satin and velvet pillows perfectly positioned to be hand fanned by two exotic looking jinni's smiling. There were beautiful hand crafted tapestries that decorated the ceiling and walls. The lit candles in the room made the shadows flutter as they fanned me smoothly. Italian marble tables held crystal vases that glistened full of wild orchids and gold angelic figurines playing harps in melodic harmonies. I felt wonderfully confused thinking, what have I done to deserve all of this exotic pleasure? Is this a gift, a dream, or have I died and gone to heaven? When I situp from my sleeping position a curtain is unveiled and in comes the Russian waiter spinning his platinum serving tray ornately decorated with hot coffee, fruit, juice, eggs Benedict and a huge ball of opium with all the necessary paraphernalia. Seeing that wild eyed sneer from the waiter jogged my memory a bit and realized I wasn't in heaven, but sure not in hell either. Not as of yet, anyway! I vaguely start to remember some of the previous events. As the waiter turns to leave I ask him, "What the hell happened last night? I blacked out from those margaritas." The waiter replies, "You created quite a stir last night." He yells, " You won big. You raped the 'executive game' and Mr. Cheney almost shot you in the face." "You won his jinni's in the final round of the blackjack game." "After you won you acted like a drunken fool and taunted him. He threw his cognac in your face and whipped out his Walther P.P.K." "Just as he took aim, Big Daddy rifled his raspberry Bartles & Jaymes and cracked Mr Cheney in his frontal lobe, knocking him out cold." "You were a very lucky man last night." "When you feel awoken and refreshed Big Daddy has ordered a sit-down with you. This time you might not be so lucky!"

Memoirs Of Super Patriot Jack Keith Mercenery Status Assignment Taliban Cafe Post 9/11 aka Sterling Christianson

The Marquee flashed in a pulsating psychedelic rhythm of vibrant yellow, green, and red neon lights under the starlit moons bright night here in Kandahar. It read, "Come One, Come All, Welcome To The Taliban Cafe". Gunfire and Tomahawk missile blasts echoed from the distant valley. The putrid stench of rotting flesh and gun powder permeated the steamy air in this lawless dead-zone of Islamic degenerates.

The cafe host greeted me with a red eyed sadistic smile. He then led me to a polished red marble table where I was seated at the patio, gazing above, into the Kandahar stars as the Taliban played horseshoes in camel dung pits which were surrounded by small bonfires. A Russian waiter wearing a red velvet robe handed me a menu and said, "Welcome to the Taliban Cafe, Drink Up! The Taliban Margaritas are laced with opiated crushed ice and poppy stems protrude from atop of our cocktail glasses like celery stalks from your beloved American Bloody Mary's!" I replied, "Hell, I'm impressed! How about a double Banana-Strawberry Margarita, Pronto?" The waiter returned within two minutes spinning a glistening platinum serving tray with the dexterity of a Harlem Globe Trotter, sliding me this radiating elixir of Kandahar Lightning. I pulled on the straw in savage thirst as the potion melted and dripped down my jowls seducing me with luxurious warmth and euphoria.

Feeling a bit more comfortable, I take a curious and altered gaze out to the horseshoe pit where echelon Taliban entertain themselves by coaxing a local boy to fetch an overthrown horseshoe. With not too many choices in the matter, the boy cautiously proceeds through the sand in complete fear then grimaces as the Taliban duck for cover. Kaboom!!!! (Massive explosion) I shudder and see him blown to pieces. Hot flesh, blood, bone and shrapnel smoke clouds my vision. He was just smeared by a 'Bouncing Bettie' while the Taliban belly laugh in a sadistic state of elation. "That was a real hot rod!" Screamed the waiter. The Horror of it all.

Liberally soaking my palette with this frozened warm cafe Margarita, I unblinkingly gaze into the menu. It reads "Smoke the hash and place a cash bet with the Taliban Polo Minister Of Recreation and get the line on the nearest after hours V.I.P. Kandahar, Casino Cave Bar where the deep players dwell." My interest and curiosity was piqued in a state of pure Machiavellian need. I wave to the Russian waiter and he returns smirking while asking, "Would You Like To Place An Order?" In my stupor I reply, "I need to see the The Taliban Polo Minister Of Recreation and request a shuttle to the Kandahar Casino Cave Bar." I peel off a couple hundred from my bill fold then stagger off following another Taliban where they place me in the back seat of a 600 SL Mercedes Benz. In a nearly blacked out state of diluted awareness, we drive off. As we wind through the bomb blasted streets, I can see the locals, hustling goat meat in the market square as Veal Marsala. Beautifully decorated with clove beads, sprigs of parsley and Mary Jane all the while they chain smoke opiated cigar blunts cursing in prayer.

When we arrive through all the layered, interwoven stream of Afghan madness, they lead me to the 'Executive Black Jack' table, where seated to my left was Dick Cheney and seated to my right was the God smacked cavalier, "Big Daddy" (GHWB), our high priest, sipping a Bartle & Jaymes Raspberry wine cooler,enjoying the decadence of Kandahar finest young candy, melting smoothly in a luxurious lap dance of pleasure.

It was a surreal moment. I thought we must be in ancient Babylon with the echelon of the Taliban as I notice Cheney and Big Daddy sporting robes of translucent hemp dress and sweated feet in Topsider leather sandals as the Jukebox blares a fanfare of Greatful Dead songs.

'Fire In The Mountain' was playing. They were also strapped with AK-47's, high tech capsule gas masks, and grenades. It was then I fully realized, It was 'Big Daddy' all the way baby!

Cherry-Apple Martinis, Pink Cocaine And The Insatiable Thirst For Self Sabotage Through Lusty Whore Mongering And Bestial Political Bafoonery

Coupled with a twang of Southern arrogance gliding out of a sharp, silver tongued -- Bastard -- a North Carolina University education, the degenerate tan and pruned pretty-boy-man-child, slithers by like a randy old musty sloth "ridin' hard and put away wet", out of you know who's lusty legs, all lathered up with a fresh scent of pharmaceutical grade, Peruvian Pink Cocaine ....."I love the smell of cocaine in the morning"! Behind his smarmy chuckle and power-entitled mind-set, there's a cruel and vicious carnivore just below the surface being masked by the charade of Mary Kay cosmetics and a well-practiced swagger fashioned, in of course, Italian suits and finely crafted leather shoes. Here lies one super-deceptive and thieving shit-bag you'll ever want to be associated with. You'll always walk away light in your wallet, confused, bewitched and definitely "Had" in a somber state of loss and regret...which could turn violent, adding just one more "neat" Jack Daniels. That's right, Bubba......John Edwards is no doubt a degenerate swine straight out of George towns casting of hyper-delusional characters with no shame seen, so far. A real, no bullshit, dancing fucking bear we've got here. This next segment is part 2 of the rare interview with once presidential hopeful, John Edwards - slick sloth Jonny Boy Blue.

Michele Bachmann Racist Dingbat Extraordinaire

It's a pretty sure bet that most men would rather see Michele Bachmann in a Playboy centerfold layout than the blithering idiot she has become in the GOP race for the presidency. Yes, we know she's out of the race to become President and like in the case with Sarah Palin, she would also function better for us men within the parameters of a Penthouse or Playboy photo shoot. Most, if not all the bullshit that spews out of her vile mouth, is hair-raising and downright on the fringe of insanity. So she didn't get to where she's at now in politics because she went to Harvard or Yale. She's a pretty women with absolutely nothing to offer on an intellectual level. Lets just examine a few quotes from the Queen of idiocy -

"I find it interesting that it was back in the 1970s that the swine flu broke out under another, then under another Democrat president, Jimmy Carter. I'm not blaming this on President Obama, I just think it's an interesting coincidence." -Rep. Michele Bachmann, on the 1976 Swine Flu outbreak that happened when Gerald Ford, a Republican, was president, April 28, 2009 I think she may have failed History 101 and Government 101 in her college days (or nights). *sigh* Moving on...

"Carbon dioxide is portrayed as harmful. But there isn't even one study that can be produced that shows that carbon dioxide is a harmful gas." -Rep. Michelle Bachmann, April, 2009 I guess Science wasn't her forte, either. It gets even better Americans...

"If we took away the minimum wage -- if conceivably it was gone -- we could potentially virtually wipe out unemployment completely because we would be able to offer jobs at whatever level." -Michele Bachmann, Jan. 2005 Looks like Economics wasn't her strong suit, either. Does she even have a college degree?

"Before we get started, let's all say 'Happy Birthday' to Elvis Presley today." -Rep. Michele Bachmann, while campaigning for president in South Carolina on what was actually the anniversary of Elvis's death, Aug. 16, 2011 (Elvis was born on January 8) NOOOOO! Not the King! Don't drag the King of Rock-n-Roll into your silly little incompetent mind.

"It is horrific to know that in the African American community, 50 percent of all African American pregnancies in the United States end in abortion, 50 percent. That is a genocide of African Americans of the United States. It should not be. There are Americans all across this country who would love to adopt African American babies, but they can't because 50 percent of all African American pregnancies today are ending in abortion." What the fuck does that even translate into?

“This is just about waving a tar baby in the air and saying that something else is the problem. I have never seen a more irresponsible president who is infantile in the way that he continually blames everybody else for his failure to, first, diagnose the problem and, second, to address the problem. It’s always everyone else’s fault.” “The president is a complete and utter fraud and a hypocrite on this issue, with all due respect to the president.” OHHHH, now we see. "tar baby"? A poor choice of words or the rambling truths of an insane racist women? But hold on, folks. It gets even better.

"I look at the Scripture and I read it and I take it for what it is. I give more credence in the Scripture as being kind of a timeless word of God to mankind, and I take it for what it is. And I don't think I give as much credence to my own mind, because I see myself as being very limited and very flawed, and lacking in knowledge, and wisdom and understanding. So, I just take the Bible for what it is, I guess, and recognize that I am not a scientist, not trained to be a scientist. I'm not a deep thinker on all of this. I wish I was. I wish I was more knowledgeable, but I'm not a scientist." - Michele Bachmann interviewing with Todd Fiel at KKMS as quoted in the Stillwater Gazette, September 29, 2003. Now you tell me fellow Americans, Presidential material or Playboy material? Well that's a no - brainer! When everything is said and done, I'm sure Hugh Hefner would love to make that phone call.

Afghanistan Heroin Trade Dictates War For Huge Profits

Afghanistan's President, Hamid Karzai and drug-smuggling/arms dealer brother, Ahmed Wali Karzai have been orchestrating one of the largest heroin-smuggling operations, similar to that of the Vietnam heroin-smuggling ring, back in the late 1960's and into the early 1970's. Now heroin-smuggling is no big surprise coming out of Afghanistan considering it's the largest cash crop in the nation. But also the perfect staging ground for manufacturing and transport using Allies aircraft for disbursement to England and Canada. Investigations are ongoing into whether or not there is any US involvement in the transport operations.

Now this kind of news intelligence is never encouraging in this process of "nation-building", but if we're going to supposedly leave Afghanistan, we cannot continue to leave these two blood-sucking brothers in power. Their corruption would be at the very least, NOT in the best interest to Afghans or the United States, purely based upon the high costs and very low progress rating. The possibility of the Talibans return would become very real and highly probable, keeping this endless money train intact if Afghans are not given the individual power to fight back the Taliban. Afghan military is still scattered and weak at best. Karzai wants the Taliban to infiltrate enemy lines and raise hell....it keeps the US in Afghanistan and Karzai in power.

The Newt Factor

As the GOP scrambles to make sense of it all, Newt Gingrich plows through the campaign trail still hurling his vile onslaught of character attacks, insults, insinuations and accusatory outbursts. Like an aging prize fighting Pit-Bull, foaming at the mouth and dragging his full set of blue balls across the country, the very thought of this ugly Nazi beast getting the nod for Republican Presidential nomination is not only dangerously possible, but an exact sign of the Apocalypse. If he doesn't get the nomination, all of this Newt-Barking and school-yard bullying has been an angle to get into the White House as possible VP or even scarier, Secretary of State. What will the GOP do with the Newt factor? Lets face it, in most circles, Newt would be considered for a long prison term, gang beating or better yet, a Donald Rumsfield special - a good old water boarding session.

Now from the pulpit, lets take a minutes and examine a few quotes by this venomous king snake in an effort to get a feel for his moral foundation and direction he would like to take our beloved United States of America.

"If combat means living in a ditch, females have biological problems staying in a ditch for thirty days because they get infections and they don’t have upper body strength. I mean, some do, but they’re relatively rare. On the other hand, men are basically little piglets, you drop them in the ditch, they roll around in it, doesn’t matter, you know. These things are very real. On the other hand, if combat means being on an Aegis-class cruiser managing the computer controls for twelve ships and their rockets, a female may be again dramatically better than a male who gets very, very frustrated sitting in a chair all the time because males are biologically driven to go out and hunt giraffes.” —Newt Gingrich in 1995

"She's not young enough or pretty enough to be the wife of a President. And besides, she has cancer.'" --Newt Gingrich, reportedly speaking to a friend in 1980 about why he was divorcing his first wife.

"There's no question at times of my life, partially driven by how passionately I felt about this country, that I worked far too hard and things happened in my life that were not appropriate." -- Newt Gingrich, explaining in 2011 why he cheated on his first two wives. He carried on the first affair while his wife was suffering from cancer, and the second while he was orchestrating Bill Clinton's impeachment.

"It is tragic what we do in the poorest neighborhoods, entrapping children in child laws which are truly stupid…These schools should get rid of unionized janitors, have one master janitor, pay local students to take care of the school." —Newt Gingrich on abolishing child labor laws "This is something that no liberal wants to deal with," Gingrich said. "Core policies of protecting unionization and bureaucratization against children in the poorest neighborhoods, crippling them by putting them in schools that fail has done more to create income inequality in the United States than any other single policy. It is tragic what we do in the poorest neighborhoods, entrapping children in, first of all, child laws, which are truly stupid. "You say to somebody, you shouldn't go to work before you're what, 14, 16 years of age, fine. You're totally poor. You're in a school that is failing with a teacher that is failing. I've tried for years to have a very simple model," he said. "Most of these schools ought to get rid of the unionized janitors, have one master janitor and pay local students to take care of the school. The kids would actually do work, they would have cash, they would have pride in the schools, they'd begin the process of rising." He added, "You go out and talk to people, as I do, you go out and talk to people who are really successful in one generation. They all started their first job between nine and 14 years of age. They all were either selling newspapers, going door to door, they were doing something, they were washing cars." "They all learned how to make money at a very early age," he said. "What do we say to poor kids in poor neighborhoods? Don't do it. Remember all that stuff about don't get a hamburger flipping job? The worst possible advice you could give to poor children. Get any job that teaches you to show up on Monday. Get any job that teaches you to stay all day even if you are in a fight with your girlfriend. The whole process of making work worthwhile is central." Well Newt, I'm not too sure of how the rest of Americans feel, but for me, you're a scary, disgusting excuse for a man, and you should be imprisoned within a high security penitentiary and gang raped by fellow prison thugs on a daily basis. You made the above statements, not I, and I'm totally convinced you take too much Viagra as it's turned you into a blithering idiot!

Kafka, Ketamine and Chaos in Stripperville, NY

With a folded paper bound copy of Franz Kafka's The Metamorphosis tucked in my back pocket and a handful of acid, I washed down the orange sunshine tablets with an iced cold Heineken and a breath of fresh air. It was only an amount of time when it would take a firm hold and bring me to psychedelic heaven. In between the time it would grip me and now, I reached for my Kafka and read a short caption while showing little interest in the pile of Ketamine my girlfriend was shoveling up her nose with her new friend, Star child. Storm, my girlfriends stage name, was every bit of descriptive as her life. One big thunderous storm of chaos. Her birth name was Chrissy, which was far more beautiful than her general perspective and immature nature in life. Star-Child was someone new that entered the arena of the poled stage and still naive to the ways of stripper life. Chrissy took her under her wing, which was a scattered and tormented wing of broken dreams and abandoned innocence from childhood. Their outer physical beauty was gorgeous to say the least. Every man's desires wrapped up within a soft and warm comforter on my bed at the Airport Inn, where I resided on the outskirts of Stripperville, NY. It was 3:56 a.m. I was on a three day bender and it was reaching it's end. Gobbling up the handful of LSD-25 was a desperate attempt to keep this party roaring and maybe revive my sleep depraved mind. Star-Child seemed pretty cool. Still young, vibrant and a little more destined for a decent life if she got off board the stripper train. She wore her alter ego tattooed on her lower back in a native American Indian mosaic of the sun gods with the name Star-Child bordering the top of her brand. She told me, "Call me Star, for short." Probably to keep her true identity anonymous and somewhat preserved. I was alright with that. She seemed like a Star to me right then and I kept reading Kafka.

I wasn't into these new designer drugs that had emerged from the techno club sub-culture. Ecstasy, Ketamine and GHB. They all sounded like a good time, but they were far more dangerous than LSD-25. I always kept a bottle of Qualude's or Valium on hand, just in case any paranoia would settle in and grip me with the fear. Living in an airport inn can be a weird lifestyle seeing people always coming and going. Meeting someone in the bar that was waiting on their layover and to then never see them again. You get a chance to catch a glimpse within their lives. Added were all the jets flying overhead at all hours, sometimes rumbling the foundation similar to that of a small earthquake. But I enjoyed this lifestyle. It was liberating in some strange way and isolating in another. As my mind started to purr from the orange sunshine tabs, I set my Kafka aside and started engaging Star and my girlfriend Storm. They were preparing Ketamine for nasal consumption in a toaster oven that I cooked French bread pizza's in. I warned them to be careful as not to burn the inn down and to keep in mind, we're really not in "Alice In Wonderland", to keep them in check. I could already feel that I wasn't going to get a big bang from the acid, because I had been eating a lot of it recently. My tolerance was pretty high, so a nap or a good sleep was approaching slowly. I also noticed their general demeanor was drifting into a tranquil mood of calmness from the Ketamine. A little to tranquil I might add. It reminded me of the Brazilian women that managed the inn. She was domineering and stingy, but I think she wanted to rape me. When I first re-located there, she was very friendly and helpful, but then, when I started dating Storm and brought her around, her tone towards me kind of changed. The room phone started ringing incessantly until I would answer, "Hello?" In a bitter and nasty tone, she would demand, "Richard, come down to the office immediately!"

Then I would get reamed out for something frivolous or ridiculous. I kind of let it go through one ear and out of the other, patronizing her, opting out of any sort of confrontations. I don't think she liked my guests, so, I would now enter the inn from the balcony staircase. When she realized I was avoiding her, she'd make up a new rule that everyone had to clear the front desk to enter. Sometimes I did, sometimes I didn't. She was still taking my money to live there, so I really didn't pay attention to the rules. I never did anyway. I just tried to keep a low profile. As Storm and Star maintain a mild grip on themselves, I felt comfortable enough to catch some zzzzzz's hoping I wouldn't have to play babysitter and monitor their deviant activity with the Ketamine. If severely abused, it can cause some weird behavioral problems and stunt the mind a bit. It was like trying to sleep with one eye open, but after three days of heavy duty intoxication, my mind and body were screaming out for sleep. So, I did! Big mistake! I had probably gotten a few hours of sleep as the morning sun was now scorching through the slits of the paisley orange curtains now seeming to breathe or pulsate. A hallucinatory reaction from the LSD-25. The immediate problem was the dynamic beating on my door obviously in a frantic state like a cop hunting their prey.

Desheveled, paranoid and now hallucinating, I responded. "Who's there? I'm sleeping." At the same time I could see and smell smoke billowing out from my toaster oven. It smelled like burning chemicals and made me feel very nauseous and immediately concerned. So I tear the plug from out of the wall and gaze over to see Storm and Star sprawled out naked on the floor in a semi-conscious state with their bags of stripper paraphernalia and other nice goodies that would get me suited for a prison jumpsuit and a definite call to a bail bonds man. With a tone of scrutiny and a sincere concern for fire, the chamber maid responds, "I smell something burning from your room and it's filled the hallway with smoke and a strange odor. Please open your door so I can see in!" Oh Fuck! That wasn't going to happen. She slipped her master key in and yelled, "I'm coming in sir!" I had the strap lock hinged firm and tight, so her quick effort came to a screeching halt only opening a couple inches of the door. Whew! In a a very nervous tone I tell her, "I'm naked and have to throw on some clothes. I'm just smoking cigarettes. Hold on a minute." Fully clothed and lying my fucking ass off, I dash over over to awaken Storm and Star from their Ketamine induced stupor. The chamber maid again requests to gain entry with a firmer tone, "I smell a very strange odor and I can see the smoke coming from within your room. The smoke smells like burning chemicals, not cigarettes. I'm alerting the front desk at once!"

The chamber maid again requests to gain entry with a firmer tone, "I smell a very strange odor and I can see the smoke coming from within your room. The smoke smells like burning chemicals, not cigarettes. I'm alerting the front desk at once!" I said to myself, "you do that", and pushed the door shut and spin the deadbolt, then go into freak out mode trying to wake and clean up their intoxicated mess which had now become my nightmare. I take a more detailed scan of the room quickly as it looked like a night on the town with Keith Richards or Syd Barret. Stiletto heels, empty beer and liquor bottles, makeup, mace, costumes, all strewn about with little time to gather and clean up. Now the room phone starts to ring and ring. I knew if I didn't pick up the next knock on my door would be by the police for sure, so with apprehension and a head full of acid, I answer with a sorry and pitiful tone, "Hello?" It was the Brazilian Innkeeper at the front desk. She sounded really mad and screamed, "Richard, you need to come down right this second. I need to speak to you at once!" Again, in a sorrowful tone I tell her, "Ill be right down." And then proceed to gather anything I can see that would imprison me and jam it all in a brown paper bag like garbage. From there, I thought a good firm boot to their butts might get them up and alert, as this present dilemma was none of my doing. I could feel my hands start to quiver from the thought of facing her right now, so I pop ten milligrams of Valium to take the edge off. This wasn't going to be an easy bullshit routine. The boot to the butts brought them back to consciousness as they complained of the peculiar odor and the smoke they forgetfully created. I yell at both of them to get their drunken butts in gear and give them a quick briefing on the latest summons from the Queen of mean, our Brazilian Innkeeper. Before I slam the door behind me to go make my plunge into the depths of a nasty tongue lashing at least, I grit my teeth and tell them, "Get your acts together and no more damned Ketamine right now! Damn it! Clean this damn place up, NOW!" As I make my way down the hallway to the staircase, I could see other chamber maids whispering and hissing in my direction as the hallway did wreak of something foul and unlawful. I ease on down the staircase and take one last breath of air to compose myself and was hoping this wasn't going to be too ugly. When I approach her desk, she is seated in her wheeled arm chair, glaring through me with contempt and maybe pity. When she hung up the office phone, it made me feel a little nervous, maybe she had just gotten off the phone with the police, but the Valium was starting to ease in my psyche. When she sat up and stepped to me, she met me eye to eye and sternly stated, "You have one hour to pack your belongings and leave with your guests or I'll being calling the Sergeant of the state police. He's a personal friend of mine. I think it would be in your best interest to 'hit the road' and find a more suitable dwelling for your lifestyle and the friends you drag in." From there her words kind of dribbled out, as her face morphed into a snake head or some kind of demonic reptilian creature with a thirst for blood and control. I thought staring into her, I must be reading too much Kafka. In the midst of hallucinations and the burnt smell of Ketamine wafting our way, I gladly choke out the words, "I'll be gone in twenty minutes. I'm sorry to have caused such a ruckus." When I shuffle back up the staircase, she yells, "One hour! That's it!" I didn't bother to answer her. She meant every word of it! When I slid the key back into the door and opened it, the smell was overwhelming and grossly drug related. Storm and Star were just lolli-gagging as if nothing had happened. I was too pissed to unleash my fury on them at the moment. We just needed to pack and get out of Dodge, fast. They could tell my mood was unattractive as I passed down the instructions and moved at a brisk pace just tossing things in bags, taking no time to pack in a normal fashion. Lazy and with a smart mouthed tongue, Storm, as usual, felt the need to insert her two cents and barked, "To hell with that miserable witch. The minute she realized you had a girlfriend, she became a nasty and vindictive wench, because she knew there was no chance to bed you down and you know it! So don't go blaming me this all on me!" I reply, "Just pack up and let's move it. She's not playing around here with us. We're out of here, pronto!" Star didn't say much of anything in light of the circumstances. She just followed my lead unlike my girlfriend, Storm. Storm's apartment was just two miles away, so we didn't have far to travel. The whole incident stripped me of my independence because I had no real intentions of moving in with her. Way too mouthy and unpredictably detrimental to my liberties, as this being a prime example. Within fifteen minutes we were packed and headed out. When I threw everything into the trunk, I returned to the office to give the Innkeeper the keys back. She wouldn't even look at me other than to say, "Set them on the counter and go!" On the short ride back, I cracked another Heineken and guzzled it down before we hit the driveway and parked. Frazzled and weary, the "ladies" make their way into Storm's apartment as I sit and contemplate the last seventy-two hours when my cell phone rings. I view the caller ID and it was the damned Airport Inn. What the hell could they want now. I was going to click the phone off but decided I'd better answer it. Who knows what this could be about.

I answer, "Hello?" In a stern, but a bit more pleasant tone, she says, "Richard, you've left your Kafka book here, as the chamber maid found it while cleaning your room. There was a one hundred dollar bill as a bookmark. If you want it, you should retrieve it now or she'll keep it as a tip." I reply, "I'll be right there. Give me five minutes." She just hung up on my face. Driving back I thought, well, that was a nice gesture. She surely didn't have to do that. Still mildly hallucinating, I take a slower ride back as the car was stripped of any substances from the inn. When I do finally make it there, it was a chamber maid that handed me the one hundred dollar bill and stated, "She said to give you this and if you want the book back, she was available in her private suite." I thought, hmmmm, that's weird . I had never heard of any private suites in this small inn, but I definitely wanted my Kafka book back. The chamber maid pointed in the direction of the pool area where there was a long hallway that did seem a bit more private. It was very quiet, so I must have been heading in the right direction. I then heard what sounded to be Brazilian music echoing from within this partially opened room. This must be her private suite, so I gently knocked. The tone in her voice was erotic as she said, "Come in my dear." When I entered, she was seated at the edge of her bed dressed in a Swedish maid like costume, with her breasts protruding out of the tightly fitted garment. It was definitely something a stripper might wear before they disrobe and become the eyes of attention. Feeling stunned and unprepared for this encounter, I felt frozen within time, possibly a hallucination, or just another bad dream I had not awoken from. It was neither! When I extended my hand to grasp my Kafka, she grabbed my wrist firm and tight, flinging me on the bed with her and started kissing me with a very long tongue. Grossed out and now really freaked out, I thought, hell, I'll have to buy another copy at Barnes and Noble and squirmed my way out of her grips for the door in a furious hurry. When I hit the long hallway, I started sprinting my way the hell out of there when she screamed, "I'm calling the Sargent on you! Get the hell out of here!" With a lot less decency, I yell back, "Go ahead you old filthy swine! You make me sick!" I guess Storm was right. As I make my turn for the final exit, I hear a wine bottle smash at my feet, splattering me with glass and red wine. I jumped into my Honda Accord and put it in overdrive, straight to Barnes and Noble and never looked back. Another day in the life at Stripperville, NY!