Dispatches from a Medical Testing Facility

Adventures since Denver:


Lonnie ran over a bar (a redneck bar) and Skit died twice, but together we drove a gas spewing full-sized school bus completely loaded with “antiques” on a few hundred mile desert meth quest, got lost in a walmart parking lot, bounced off the guard rail whenever the old man fell asleep, went offroading, napped in an intersection, and fought entire rural police and fire departments regarding our right to roast a cooler of rotting meat over a raging parking lot fire. It took us 28 hours to make a 4 hour drive, and it was time for me to get back on the train. Until, that is, the Great State of Texas deemed me an unfit citizen to be in their fine state, but luckily a gay wiccan ex-marine trucker with a slobbery shar pei named Gumby deposited me in a new state, a new line, and a chooch over the Muddy Mississip. From there it was Railroad Ron, and together we snuck through sewers to spectacularly slip the South’s angrist police force and catch that midnight train to Georgia against all odds. This deliverence percipitated an unfortunate series of events in which I may or may not have hotboxed bath salts with deformed babies in a swamp and spent two frustrating weeks wandering from Atlanta to Savannah to Augusta to Atlanta to Augusta to Charlseton to Savannah to Augusta to Savannah to Philly, stopping only to pick up a strange bummy kid and “enjoy the night” at a dodgy latin night club. But I was saved by Pastor Mole at the all-black Vision Ministries in the small small town of Fairfax, South Carolina where I played the tamborine in the church choir and ate a lot of fried chicken. Much tastier than my Thanksgiving of sitting under a bridge eating a can of tuna with a stick.
Finally I arrived in New York, where I tried my hardest to find a job slangin trees, but failed until a late-season heroin-induced blood-catastrophe saw me taking over as Christmas elf/box truck resident in Queens. And boy was it drunk! I got lessons in how to eat cats (under seige conditions), new ways to make fun of Staton Island, and how to drink enough Romanian moonshine to find myself wandering the snowy Christmas morning streets of sans pants. Also learned never to trust the French Canadian mob, no matter how cute their accents.
Now I’m in a Baltimore medical research facility (think jail meets hospital with a nice view) where for the next two weeks I will be assisting in the search for a lupus and auto-immune disorder, or something like that, and comparing gunshot wounds with a bunch of guys who actually have gunshot wounds to compare (which they call “spider bites”). If anybody cares to write me while I’m here, that would be great- because this place is even more boring than the time I joined that stupid Goenka cult.
Dropping acid in Colonial Williamsburg.

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