Palis Royale Dime-Baggers Dozen

Palis Royale Dime-Baggers Dozen

A Chapter by MoriartyMesa
"

One tail of drugs, fire arms, boozing, car crashes and Gonzo writer Al North

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Sitting in the casino lounge i was informed by the front desk my line of credit was no longer good, another hand and I would have owned the Casino and I would have fired that smug little b*****d as he smiled at me with gin reeking breath and stress lines of a broken and battered married man.  It was at my own insistence I left the hotel that day anyway, the unpaid bill, thou not totally in my name, would give me away. Thankfully, a fat man from Texas and a cowboy hat was being dragged out of the men's room, "I thought you just wanted toilet paper" he said screaming as the pigs hauled him off to county to become the torment and ruin of his family, he maybe i can cover the story i thought, but there wasn't anytime.

One of the few outstanding benefits of Lake Tahoe, is with the ever foreseen doom of Vegas, more and more mindless sheep flock to Tahoe, so navigating your way through dying elderly seniors blowing the grand kids college fun at the slot machines. Fat fire breathing over bearing mothers prostituting their little girls in some vast child kidnapping conspiracy called "Child Beauty Pageants".  Newlydoomed weds running up and down the casino and lobbies as they enter the terrible fate of living together.  But what hotel would be a hotel with out wealthy men and their 'niece's'.  Total and utter chaos, not time will present itself for a more plausible escape than a crowded Casino Lobby, fat gay men blubbering and child running screaming up and down the lobby like rabid wolves looking to slaughter their next prey.

It has always been a custom to have a second case  in the car, spare computer, spare black bag of nothing but completely legal over and under the counter rain bow of uppers downers, poppers, and sinkers, spare bottle of Scotch with a colt that was given to me by an ex-cop and good friend.  As the boy scouts will tell you, always be prepared.  At some point, I knew my break would need to come soon, how long could i hold out before the Texas Queen would be laid out and the Vampire Mothers would gathers their slaves?  Making my way out, three Nuns walked by, one gave me a dirty look and raised her hand in a mighty wind of fury. "THATS HIM, THE ONE IN THE CAB AT THE AIR-PORT!" Before she could warn the other sisters, a small child ran under her knocking her down, good time to leave by my judgement.

My car was waiting for me, thankfully the valet was busy discussing 'Post Modern Art' with a group of Japanese midgets all searching for the all night diners and massage parlors. Getting out of a town you have spent the better part of a weekend wrecking is rather simple, why you even get cheery waves, sometimes an escort to the state line. My escort was right behind me firing his side arm in the air, with a cool head I proceeded to the state line as he stopped at the edge of the county line.  Six hours at the most and I would be in Berkeley in time for the college students to walk by my house and try to bother me for something, but that wasn't my fate that day.  In my rapid haste from the casino, it occurred to me I was suppose to be covering something but couldn't remember what I had faxed in. But good fortune my cell phone was with me and no calls means no problems, with the top down, the Stones playing, three hits of acid, three shots of scotch and one blunt later all my problems seemed to behind me. The Magazine got their story, I have a checking coming to me and enough narcotics in me to make the trip home seem to like a small inch across the map of light and color.
Your amateur drug abuser will always preach the pioty of not driving under the influence, this however is only explained by those who live by rationale standards this however is untrue for your 
high-functioning sociopath, some consider us not all together people, but in a world that is stranger than fiction what is actually fact and fiction? However in my daze and confusion, I had landed myself in some God Forsaken land.  It was a recognizable place, but my mind was still fogged down with all sounds and manners of hyper ultra awareness.  Some of the towns in Northern California, never quiet recovered from the incompetent hands of political sell outs and corporate pigs feeding off the flesh of the land of the free. And this town was one of them, once something that had produced and now and town that only produced poverty, injustice and fascism.

And a product of such of an environment, stumbled back into my life for a time that seemed to have stretched to the end of time. My car was comfortably sideways on a harbor, I didn't know if it was dawn or dusk, until my eyes made out  the sun setting over the vast Pacific ocean.  A view some take for granted everyday, others, offer small prayers, while a few, we small few watch the view totally bent out, freaked out, stoned out of mind and body. As the sun set the night came upon the small town, my car was out of case, my phone gone and i was down to one joint, one pack of smokes and no cash. You would not believe how hard it is to find a pay phone these days, like the gas lamps of hold, gone with the wind.  Walking the endless streets in the search of a phone, the sound of cars thumping told me I was heading in the right direction.
Say what you will of one group or another, but when your in need, guys large black gentleman or usually more than happy to help. Passing my last joint I was able to have money put back in my account, all I need now was wait, the tall African gentlemen inquired if I would like to go back to the crib to wait, no harm could come to mind so I went with them. Nice guys, good weed. Arriving at their apartment complex "The Palis Royale" a party was already in progress, sitting half the night playing domino's and exchanging views on the Geo-Political System while doing Strikes while getting a lap dance, seemed to be a pretty straight foreword evening, good clean, wholesome American fun.
Than trouble walked right through the gate of the complex of The Palis Royale. "Hey Jon, whats up man, you know who this dude is, he's that guy who writes all that crazy s**t in "Mind Bender". Yo Dude this my boy" before any words could be finished Jon was on me like a Republican in a Mens Bathroom at an Airport. When being assaulted by someone you may have pissed off years before, always behave in a calm fashion, "GET OFF ME YOU BLOATED B*****D!" Crazy son of a b***h made me spill my drink! The group of gentlemen who had been so kind to me, demanded me to leave, with all the grace of being thrown out on to the street.  Jon wasn't too far behind me, soon I would hear demands of where I had been, why he never heard from me, why I some how left him stranded. "Al, God Damn It AL!"
My first natural reaction was to keep walking, not wanting to attract any more attention than already suspect in a sleepy town.
"Al, your gonna talk to me f****r!" He said it in a slightly less angry tone, not one to be to subtle about his feelings Jon Sloan. "What, you bat s**t crazy man!" It wasn't bravery or the want of fight, just to keep him quite, three hours before the train would leave and I would be on that train. "I haven't seen you in six f*****g years, you write a story about me, and piss off back to La-la land and im the joke of the town! How the f**k do you explain that to me?" Six years and some change, it began as a  three inch column titled and became a three page lead, maybe you read it "Dime-Baggers Dozen" the story was about the 'dying breed' of the pot dealer, and with Marijuana becoming more and more acceptable in California. The weed dealer of yesterday was loosing his business to a flooded market with everyone from your next door neighbor to real estate agent was selling Marijuana. Jon was my subject of the story, but the politics took second place to this total insane maniac and his various ways of selling his product, but what made him so interesting was he took every sale personal. If a person did not like what he sold them, he would fly out in 'Hitler-like' rage, once he chased a bus foot when someone on the bus said he sold s**t weed. And now he was in front of me at that moment.
"Look man, I never actually mentioned your name, so hey, it's alright." My cheerful grin was not fooling him, in those rare times, the most savage of animals can have dominion over Man. "F**K YOU!" Short and too the point, "alright, well, it was nice to see you, take it easy," I ran like hell to the train station, but I had no idea where the train station was, in my haste with the fellas at their crib, my p.a. had told me the ticket would be waiting for me, but I could remember the name of the street. Running in panic, Jon had slowed his pursuit of me, years of living at home with his mother made him slower, but with his own strange reserves of energy he was gaining ground. Smelling the air, the hint of chow mein noodles was heavy, my confidence rose as I knew I would loose him in the near by China town. Fat guys love Chinese food and he would not resist, hiding in an alley, a homeless man claiming he was Abe Lincoln point out the train station to me.

Seeing no one in sight, I sprinted across, entering the lobby I felt like Babe Ruth making a home run. Until Jon appeared, pot stickers in one hand, black glove in the other. "Now you answer me this, why did you pretend to be my friend?" A vague question, that deserves a vague answer, "what?" "Man we hung out, you heard my most inner thoughts, than you wrote about em' YOU F****N WROTE ABOUT EM and what did i get, money, i thought we were f*****g friends!" Facing the point of no return an the desk clerk dialing the police department, Jon made no bones of what he had felt my total abandonment.  "we were never friends, i told you i was writing a story, you were cool", "WELL WHY THE HELL DIDN'T YOU EVER RETURN MY CALLS?" "your a raving maniac, their calling the cops right now. We were never friends, sorry but there it is."
He didnt say anything, he just kicked the door of the lobby and went outside, the cops, being informed of what happened, picked him up. I got on my train, Jon was arrested, another tragic victim of his own making. A poet once wrote, "All stories come back" Jon was a story that was so vaguely remembered that it was never fully taken seriously, people assumed Jon was the creation of a mind of a man who wrote about the strange and unusual. But Jon was real, as real as you or I.
Meeting Jon for the first time has the same effect as hitting three sheets of acid, than finding out it is really LSD soaked in cocaine than being set on fire while being kicked in the balls. Six years ago he was driving one of those cars that screams "Pull me over im a drug dealer!"  Once he picked a fight with an aging cross dresser only to suffer a beating by a group of transvestites who were on their way to a church picnic.
The Jon Sloane's of this world grew up in that gap of time between W-X generation. Not a complete child of the 70's but one of the 80's, a 40 year old rebel living the past. But not walking with the times. The major reason I never kept in contact was just for the reason he was arrested, he is a total insane maniac.    


© 2012 MoriartyMesa


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Added on June 12, 2011
Last Updated on July 16, 2012


Author

MoriartyMesa
MoriartyMesa

GONZOLAND!!!!!!!!!!!!, CA



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I am back! And in the word's of someone i met at a bus station. I cant remember. more..

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