The Mighty Mohave

Henry lost in the Mohave at 10 am, a hand full of mescal buds, plenty of bottled water, a cell phone that worked to got get through to Las Vegas. Loving it, waving a  hand-size crucifix wrapped in rattle-snake skin in one hand and a marimba in the other, the Cactus was wavy, the colors pierced your eyes, purples, pinks, red, green, the dry desert air is healing.

He was living in Las Vegas looking for a job, a salesman. He had a few rentals apartments in Jersey, in no hurry to get a job, he was lazy and hated work, saying... 

"People  punching time clocks, terrifying, terribly disrupting to your bio-rhythms, as bad as Orwell's "1984". 

Henry loved everything about Vegas, the cheap food and booze, cocaine everywhere, he wasn't a gambler though, he liked getting high and walking the streets, enjoying the light show, waterfalls of  purple, light green and golden colored water, walking through a psychedelic wave. Going to bars drinking some, talking to women, meeting people.

The day in the desert started to unfold psychically, vultures eye balling you, rubber-necking, flying like crows, sloppy flyers, lazy waiting to score road kill, eat some rat-tail,  the garbage man of the desert, taking flight, cooling off some. Crude paintings of vultures on rock walls, on the hills, pulling you, shaking you, if you put your ear on it, the rock moans old secrets, it goes into your bones.

Travis Henderson wondering the desert, in the film "Paris, Texas," a shaman, like Jesus in the Sinai, speaking to the Devil, Travis exorcising his own devils. Travis and Jesus walking miles in the desert, not eating, not drinking, seeing the Devil inside the body of a decaying vulture, not feeling right, smelling death, running away into the desert, people looking for Travis, worried.

On the ground, using binoculars Henry watched a slow flying descending Virgin Airline jet on the way to Vegas, thinking the powerful jet engines must blow huge payloads of spent carbon fuel out. Enjoying the open spaces in the uncluttered open desert, luckily, not roped up in an airplane seat, like being in a straight-jacket.

At Dusk, Henry loaded his BMW dirt bike, finding the main road back to Vegas. His  hotel the "Lazy Suzy" in a lousy city neighborhood, a meth neighborhood full of hookers. Henry felt sorry for the girls, they could have been anything before they took fucking meth, cheerleaders, nurses, who knows, the devil drug meth, Henry liked psychedelics and beer, he hated speed. Henry wouldn't hire the hookers on his street for all the tea in China. He would rather practice celibacy. The johns, lost lonely fat white and hispanic men dudes, who lost the art of making love.

He loaded up a cooler with ice and filed it with german beer. Laying around the room, listening to music, his cell phone rang, a call from a strip joint, talking about a job as a light show technician. Henry wanted the job...

" I want this job, I got a tripped out light show in me , blue lights, fast blinking pink strolbs, light-o-rama, stuff you would enjoy on acid watching hot chicks pole dance, trying hard not to cum in your pants?"

The boss a young guy says....


"OK dude you can start next week on thrursday be here by 5 o' clock, don't fuck up on me...."

Great, Henry thought, what a job, you could go to work high, listen to cool music, plenty of hot women around, his lucky day.

There was a knock on the door, it was a hooker, Henry knew her and she rarely hit him up for money, not much, 10 bucks sometimes. Henry invited Claire in for a beer, she was a mess, he told her she should go to rehab, get out of hooking that she was going to get HIV, the usual stuff. Claire woke up one day and she was a hooker on meth, giving truck drivers blow jobs. Claire didn't care what Henry said, she talked about people, names like, Emerald, Chrystal, Angel, Poppy, Dusty, Trip-Boy, all meth users. It bored Henry, he asked Claire to leave, wanting to go out, he put his only suit on, brown with a cotton shirt and green Hawainana tie.

Wearing converse all stars, he walked to the park and smoked a joint on a park bench, enjoying the view, heading to "Lucky Ladys," having a few drinks, meeting his friend Goth Melva, she was nice, very educated, smoked cigarettes too much, liked Trent Razor, Iggy Pop, Lenny Kravitz, music Henry had no idea about. Henry asked if she would like to go to Casares Palace with him and drink a few bottles of wine, she was thrilled, couldn't wait. 

They sat at the small bar near the pool, it was like a dream, Henry asked Melva if she wanted to dose on some chocolate mescaline? They dosed and ordered the cheapest bottle of wine on the menu, they looked into the stars, coming on, feeling very natural, connected to everything and everybody. Henry loved Vegas it was the greatest place in the world if you didn't gamble, kept a low profile, enjoyed the people, enjoying laughing at times to yourself.

Vegas in place, stuck there, not going anywhere, good, bad, indifferent, it isn't a monument, ( what kind of a monument for what, you can't think of anything), (a monument to the investors of the properties? OK so what? It doesn't mean much.) Vegas an achievement of engineering excellence, it will never be one of the wonders of the world, made to look rich, extravagant, garish, not hip really, but fun on drugs.

Melva and Henry headed for her place at 5 am in the morning, they crashed out, Henry used her computer, wrote some, going to bed scared him, bedtime was the loneliest time, he crashed on her sofa, having to lay their without a computer in his face, stuck with himself, trying to meditate, wanting to treat the world right.

People who predict the end of the earth, an impossible thing to do, astronomers approximating the downward spirals of asteroids, saying it can happen someday, in 400,000 thousand years maybe. Nostradamus, poetic predications, lofty unspecific writing, like the bible, open to interpretation, waiting for all the bad stuff to happen in the world and not much of it ever happens, not enough to end the world. Jesus never comes, you just die eventually, not the end of the trip.

Melva and Henry headed out to the desert on his motorcycle. Stoping for a drink at a small run down indian bar, Henry took a picture of the place, it was rustic, a 100 years old, like out of a western, old weathered, light blue painted wood. There were two Navajos Indians at the bar, guys with long white hair in solid green flannel shirts, slowly sipping Grainbelt, not drunk, silent, enlightened. Melva and Henry drank a few beers, lit a joint and passed it over to the Navajos granddads, they grinned from ear to ear, mouths full of white teeth. 

Henry and Melva wanted a teepee. He could be the next Bugsy Siegel, bringing employment to the Indians,  building 20 teepees, a swimming pool and bar, psychedelic drugs available, beer, wine, no whiskey, the works. A place where people were coached to live in peace, by caregivers, a place to come and die and reach the Great Spirit. To be buried Indian style, your body laid out to dry up in the sun, on an elevated tarp on poles, maybe for the vultures to munch on. 

People could come to Henry's Indian Village and feel things deeply, trip and party in peace, safe, opening up to one another, heart to heart, sitting on a blanket cross legged, facing each-other, looking into each-others eyes, full of joy, seeing, feeling everything nature has to offer, wrapped in flora.

It would be the " Longest journey that starts with the first step" one teepee and a well.

A Short Story

Deep frying scorpion tales in sweet sauce, drinking tea on the porch, odd insects, new ones not discovered, high pitched twitching sounds, other-wise silent in the jungle, birds are still strong voices in the universe. 

The village had no electric, you never heard the news, no hot showers, no TVs, computers. Henry missed writing and music the most, he didn't care about talking to anyone, the tribal people loved Henry, he was old, had white hair and a beard, harmless, an old uncle who could pay his way. 

Henry rented a house there, he could ride his Honda Dream into Pai to get supplies. 

Eventually he bought a  Honda generator and built a shelter for it under his village house so he could run a lap top computer, write and get stories out.

The world hadn't ended, Henry didn't believe the world was going to end at all, he knew that sacred hearts aflame and the league of  angels watched over us, and would take us all the way to Paradise, Paradise? I would rather live on Hollywood Boulevard, but once you get a taste of paradise, you might change your mind, everybody headed to paradise, too bad or too good, maybe full of the best thing ever, never as fun as Hollywood Boulevard.

So many different ways to approach writing, Henry spending a lifetime angry, blaming the system, whatever the system was, he didn't know. Wanting to approach writing in a different way. Writing in repentance, brilliant, you could throw up a lot of smoke or confuse people, looking brilliant to millions of readers, hmm, hehehehe, LOL. 

Henry wondered if Bukowski was brilliant like Gore Vidal and Norman Mailer.  Bukowski learning his craft by studying journalism while young in community college.  Bukowski wrote all the time, finding a voice, a horse-headed brain-child with the balls the size of grapefruit. Disenchanted,  light years away from the brilliants, Mailer, Vidal, Kerouac, John Cheever,  Capote, Tennessee Williams, closer to Steinbeck, who he liked, but never, never as good as Cheever, Truman Capote, Tennessee Williams, by far the mast of 20th and 21st Century literature.

Maybe being gay had something to do with it, Henry's favorite writers regardless, not giving a flying fuck, the three gay angels, the best of the best, Cheever and Williams by far better than Capote, Truman a master of his craft, deep thinker who enjoyed psilocybin.

Bukowski beat down early from the start, plenty enough by hard times, bitter, writing angry when society needed angry realistic writers. Pounding out his word like a drumbeat or smoke signal on the typewriter, a lot of people hearing it.

There is room for all kind of writers in this world, some are better than others, some are masters, others just work at it, aspiring to be, developing their craft, it is art, therapeutic, it is a good thing, we all need to have art forms as hobbies, it can save you from yourself.

It took Henry a long time to learn allot of things, especially that working regularly and being passionate about what you do is utmost.

Henry decided to order a Waffle at the hippy cafe in Pai. He didn't like talking to anyone. A small down in the Thai hills that had become 3 star hide away for young back packers and older expat artist. Pai was full of second hand book stores, henry had read it all, preferring to write 14 hours a day to reading.  If you read Shakespeare, what-a you gonna do? Write like him? Who in the fuck could read it, and how could you write like him anyways? 

Leaving town headed home, a herd of  baby Water Buffaloes were blocking the road, lead by a group of young monks in orange robes, bald. The Buffaloes were pure brown, blending in with the ferns, vines and red dirt. People love animals, they are innocent and talk with their eyes and bodies. You get the feeling they have huge hearts and fear us but would talk to us if we stopped eating them.

He had a date that night with a beautiful Asian women, He was nervous about meeting her, knowing she would turn him on, knowing she needed help, she was  up against it, having to make hard choices in her life. They met at Starbucks, later he met her daughter, fat. It is tough as hell being obese, especially for women and children, everybody. He would have easily taken on the beautiful mother without the kids, the fat daughter he had no idea what to do with. It was hard to love fat people even though you knew they suffered so much, being obese, the ultimate modern self- torture.

Henry, a world apart, not wanting anything, loving the free world, with allot of different mind sets, Henry had his own and it was way out there, an  odd insect, feeling the distinct pain of others. Knowing he could do little, offer a little bit, what he could for now. Feeling the rawness of it, powerless, life is cruel.

Henry, 62 years old, it was too late for him to complain and he knew it wouldn't help, , not kidding himself, going through life into old age and coming face to face with the raw choices people make everyday in the third world. Heart wrenching stuff, your first reaction is to blow it off, the sadness of having to go somewhere else in the world and  sell you pussy to survive,  just awful, making the planet a worst place to live. The world such a grand place, you gotta love it.

Henry a wasteland, stuck in time, facing mortality, useless to anyone, lazy, just wanting to get high all the time, fucking around trying to write, doing it anyways no matter how many people read him

Cuba

The Memphis City Greyhound station, one of the coolest places in the world. Everything stood still, since the 60s,  a pharmacy that sold Coca-Cola in bottles, old wooden benches, Henry on the way to Miami to hook up with some Cuban fishermen, on his way to Cuba.

Henry dreamed of  meeting hot Cuban women, with big asses, tits and ass, women like sculptures, dark skinned, wild-eyed, full of fire. Women who loved to dance, smoke cigars and drink rum. 

The  socialist revolution of Cuba, very political, Henry liked privacy,  hiding out, not having many rules, only one, never piss anyone off.

Foolishly, Henry wrote all the time, sending it out on the internet, trying to write short stories, dedicated to it,  Cuba seemed like a place a writer would go, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, on mescaline, a mensch, free wheeling, partying, writing as good as Segovia played.

The old dirty Greyhound Bus rolled into Miami that evening,  Henry checked into a cheap motel in North Miami. Later going out, hungry, he ordered some tamales, boiled pork, some cuban soda with cocaine. He had a few hours to screw around, his boat to Cuba was leaving at 10 PM.

The plan was for the fisherman too take Henry close to the Cuban coast at midnight, Henry would  swim into Cuba. He had his clothes, money passport in a floating device, a sown-up raincoat like the ones used in the film "Alcatraz",  Burt Lancaster,  the shark, John Cheever's swimmer, makes it to freedom

Henry made it to the docks on time, the Cuban fisherman were drunk already, "Sea beinvenidoa bordo, gringo." Henry wondering how they would navigate? In the pilot house he noticed the boat had no functioning instruments. Drunk sailors heading out to sea, using only a sextant and the stars to navigate, blind drunk, unable to see the stars, romantic.

Once on shore Henry would  go to the  Cuban Municipality of the Socialist Revolution, surrender his US Passport, asking for exile on political grounds, telling the Cubans, being a socialist made it impossible for him to live in the imperialist west. 

Casting off, luckily a calm night on the Straits of Florida, Henry drank with the sailors, enjoying the peacefulness of the sea, the sailors gambling . Soon, you could see a few lights out ahead in the distance, it was Cuba. Maneuvering the boat with the current, the sailors told Henry to jump, he couldn't see a thing and jumped, he heard something splinter, seriously in  pain, he had jumped in the sand, breaking his arm, the drunk sailors didn't care, they were laughing.

Henry easily made it ashore, he used a scarf for an arm-sling, finding a trail through the bush, on the road seeing the lights in the distance, he wondered how far it was to the city? His arm was throbbing.

Later at the outskirts of city, Havana, he got a taxi and went to a local clinic, the doctor put a proper caste on his arm, there was no fee as most people know, Cuba,  free medicine for all.  Later, not far from the clinic, la secret policia arrested Henry and took him to jail.  

Off to a slow start, unable to sleep much in jail, the next day transported to a four story concrete building, the Socialist Center for Adjustment, telling his story, given a temporary visa, told to check back in a few months and go have a good time, given a cuban cigar factory name-card, with a map to a cheap hotel on the back.

Henry blessed by the Sacred Heart of Jesus Christ, laughing out loud, night-time on the streets of Old Havana, Cuban Salsa, Cuban Reggae-ton, cafes, saloons, whore-houses, cuban cigars.

Deadly rum, distilled rattle-snake poison, it blinded Henry, made him black out, sick. Watching TV,  a Warren Oate's films, "Bring Me the Head of Alfredo Garcia" or "Cockfighter."  Warren Oates on TV, looking  drunk all the time, Henry drunk allot too, same as Warren Oates,  hip, a real cowboy.

Las Tunas, Cuba was a twelve hour bus ride from Havana. Henry sent to work on sugarcane field, he worked the night shift as a guard.

Their was a barracks provided for  workers, men and women lived in the same barracks, they fought side by side during the revolution of Che, Fidel Castro, Luis Afonso Zayas.

Henry working nights free to roam the compound with a french carbine. He saw a flashlight in the jungle, not far away he walked to it. A young Cuban girl was reading a book under a tree,  Jose Manti. She went on to tell Henry that she loved reading and writing short stories. She told Henry her name was Dominga, she was off tomorrow and they could go to the beach if he wished? 

It rained that morning on the beach, Dominga and Henry sat under an umbrella. They went swimming anyway, holding each other in the water, keeping warm, foundling each other some, then making out, they where kids.

Back on the beach they talked about what the socialist revolution meant. Dominga felt it is was good and bad, Henry didn't care, he figured all governments were the same, the best thing in the world would be to ball Dominga. 

The two walked to Las Tunas, a very quiet town, just a few cars, old Renaults, Cuba rebelling, turning her back on fat westernization. Batista pushing it too far, like the film "Scar Face", Al Pacino, Tony Montana smacked up at the end, head in a  monogramed platinum bowl of fairy star-dust.

The world a stage, people can't see everything at once, our vision impaired, as the years pass it seems like things get more insane. It won't change, the unimaginable will happen.

Dominga and Henry found a club in Las Tunas, the Cafe Havana, a beautiful brown place with chipping paint, they smoked small Cuban cigars and drank espresso, ordering shots of brandy. They played Cuban Jazz on the juke box, the sun was going down over the hill.

Life, salmon swimming upstream, some eaten by bears, others caught by caviar companies, others connecting life.  

None of us can see everything that is going on everywhere at once, the  melodramas going on in every room and every city. Maybe God can, hopefully! Nobody knows for sure ? Most of what we see in are heads are past violence images from TV, it's the best we can do, trying to see it all using google maps, world news stations, it's here and isn't going anywhere, a warning signal, we need it to sound the sirens of tsunamis. It mirrors cultural reality,  a  mirror, getting caught in the gray of war at times.

In La Tunas,  the Socialist News Agency was uncomplicated, political programing, mostly repetitious, boring. Dominga and Henry figured, fuck TV, who needs it, the people who need it can watch, it's a free world. 

On Monday Dominga went back to work, she began spending more time with Henry, they observed each others habits, Henry working nights, dogs barking, nothing much happening in the sugarcane, the couple living in a medium sized tent past the cane-field, on the jungles edge.

Mostly they red books and listened to sound, smoking dope some helped pass the time. 

0oooh, What the Fuck, it's Weird

Henry 62 years old, living in hotel,  a room out back with a separate entrance, avoiding guest, tired of talking shit.

A drinker, drinking too much at times, getting sick, blacking out, throwing up, all the things associated with alcoholism. Henry decided he would drink, drinking was OK as long as you left people alone and minded your own business. He would drink in his room alone, fool proof, safe drinking.

Henry at the end of the line, he was getting older, a loser, Laugh My Fucking Ass Off. Finally getting what he deserved in life, the axe.

He flipped real estate in Asia, middle class, not caring really, never getting rich, knowing being rich wouldn't help him, maladjusted, open to pervasiveness, know for sure that violence was lunacy, the  blue flame on the battlefield, Sherman charging, Sherman getting wiped out, fun for some, terrifying to others, liberating too some, tragedy to many.

Mortality, everybody's  reality,  always in your face, staring in your eyes, all eyes, the rich and the holy nonexempt, the grim-reaper. Religion a invented coping mechanism helping people face death, Heaven, reincarnation, Tibetan Buddhist teaching you to embrace death.

Henry had  friends, men mostly, older searching the Internet for   pills to off themselves, very, very sick, sick of the grind, in pain without any release, no hobbies, locked in a box, living hell on earth, terrible, terrible stuff.

Henry could hardly get a hard-on anymore, surly a good thing, a relief, sex if it lasted 15 minutes a phenomenal, a bandage masking emptiness, a quick fix, over-rated. Henry thought drinking and ganja did the job better, it lasted longer, it was cheaper . Sex wasn't healing for Henry, holding and caressing a lover forever was better than sex, it lasted little longer, minutes longer.  Booze and dope doing the job better than anything, the secret is in the distilling and brewing. 

Henry never coming close to being a jet pilot, tycoon, surgeon or hero, the right-stuff guys who got laid allot, made big money, got respect, golden trophies, pig heads boiled in their honor. It is a grand world ins't it? grand. Who knows?  Maybe people you don't know, Martians from other universes, look through powerful telescopes at us and see a colony of frogs with bloated chest in designer clothes, tycoons, fat mayors, princesses in line, weird to their eyes.

A world full of great art, literature, paintings, sculptures, film, music, dance, priceless. Henry listening to a Chopin piano concerto, pensive, magic moments that make it  matter, like all the shit in the world is worth it for a second.

Henry had a friend, Lumpy, a rich guy, Henry and Lumpy, Asian expatriates from America, pals hanging out some. Lumpy got drunk one night and almost killed a cop in LA who pulled him over for DUI. Henry suspected Lumpy was on the run, he didn't want to bring it up. Lumpy found peace, a constant battle. He had rules: No coffee, booze, dope, hiding ostentation's, never watching the news or reading a paper, following routine, never changing nothing.

Henry figured he would stop watching CNN, the war in the Middle East, a tragedy, killing innocents, collateral damage, random shootings at schools and in public places, things that should never happen. Even the president cried, TV the scary truth, National Geographic, Discovery Channel, the preppers, people getting busted for dope, the end of the world, Mexicans hung and decapated from over passes, apocalyptic documentaries, tsunamis, bombs, economic collapse.

Henry  laid in bed watching TV on downers, smoking ganja, fantasying about living in chaos, he was gonna run away from it,  live with the Thai-Yii  in the hills of  Thailand,  fried scorpions good as falafel , caterpillars, month larva, leaves for seasoning, growing rice, shooting wild hogs, eating monkeys. And most important of all,  brewing your own whiskey in the hills, the old fashioned way.

"There is an acre of corn in a bottle of whiskey" William Faulkner

"There is a  a barrel of hash oil in an acre of marijuana" Figaro Lucowski

" I never trust a fighting man that doesn't drink whiskey" Admiral William "Bull" Halsey

"I hate to advocate drugs, alcohol or insanity but hey, they have always  worked for me." Hunter S. Thompson

Drinking, the most copious, superabundant kick in the universe, for my money the best way to cope. Using was Henry's way,  accepting Jesus finding peace too boring, yoga hurts too much, AA gestalt overtime, working out too-much work, bowling too stupid, fucking temporary, going outside ugly.

Drinking the most exhilarating joy in the universe, fun, relaxing, effortless, tasty, unlocking inhibitions, getting a pensive feeling. Enjoying the privacy of your own house, or going to happy-land.

Henry, unsure what writing was,  thinking he needed to write, with no time to read, just writien, a hobby that kept him going, kept depression at bay, reason enough to write.

Not know how to write about the usual stuff, horror, mystery, international intrigue, romance, horse racing, pedigree dogs, crystal suckers, cooking, zen flower arrangement, editorial replies to papers. Staying within a five block radius of his small guest house, locked in the office hiding form people, guilty of everything, knowing nothing, not caring but realizing the only thing to do was accept what-ever happened.

Take your typical romance novel written by say a Mary Wilder. Written masterfully, edited, proofread, perfect diction, sharp like a knife, conflicting characters, lonely people driven by off the wall emotions, jealous of everybody, sabotaging strong type A lovers.

Written for someone in a gray space, thousands of them out there, selling well, writing that shut downs their minds, Henry wanted to write about quick life, loveless fucks, being, drunkenness, transcendence, serendipity.

Henry, dosed, happy, a big slob, feeling like the fat Buddha, hardly caring,  willing to accept good or bad down the line, trying to hunker down and prepare for the worst, knowing for sure you can't contol much of it.

Bi Polar Deers

Christmas Eve in Chicago 1990, hardly blessed with the spirit or hallmarks of Robert Frost in a horse pulled sleigh coasting through pure powdered snow delivering figgy pudding to his neighbor. 

The snow in the city was mucky, in the alley-ways wino's hovered close to old oil drums at midnight, burning anything to keep from freezing, hoping the sun would come up tomorrow and warm their bones as they caught a few winks on a park benches at Avalon or Chopin park.

It was Christmas Eve in Miami 1990, Henry worked as an orderly at Dade County Mental Health Center, unofficially, the nut-house. Henry nuts himself, the patients his brothers and sisters, he felt more rapport with them than he did with the staff. 

The Psychiatrist were particularly disengaged and alien. Freudian and Jungian therapy was a thing of the past, therapy was a thing of the past. Big Pharma: Wyeth, Pfizer, Roche, Eli Lilly, Snafu, pushing dope to heal souls and making billions was the future. 

When the nurses weren't passing pills, they were passing gas, drinking coffee in the nurse's station talking about sex and shopping, on call, waiting for people to freak-out, cups of Thorazine, hypos full of sedatives close at hand, like stun-guns.

Henry wondered how dope worked over time to stabilize psyches, emotions, brain-waves? People's bodies were resistance to drugs after time. Or could it be people (patients) in another time and place, or in a different reality would be the ones on the outside? Henry often thought, does insanity mirror reality or does reality mirror insanity?

On full moon nights the moonbeams seemed to rattle folks brains more than usual, as though the electric signal in the brainwaves did flip flops, taking some on a roller coaster rides. The selective process out on the street that determined who went to jail and who went to the nut-house, vigilance on the lookout for abnormal behavior, particularly violence or disregard for the laws of municipality, sleeping on the beach, balling on the beach, moving your bowels in the woods. Of course, legal for deers who regularly expose themselves and can relieve themselves wherever they want. But, illegal for humans who regularly hide their penises or vaginas out of modesty, or if gay and liberated, wanting to walk about nude and show themselves, holding back, having to live within the laws of  fat mayors or municipalities.

Some of the perpetrators, depending on cop judges at street level would end up at Dade County Mental Health Center for Henry and his orderly pals to wrestle with and trade punches, then restraining, laying them out in the brown rubber room. Later after the battle, the nurses would show up and knock em out with dope, the final punch. 

Henry thought if you were going to punch someone or take a dump in the ocean you were always better off acting crazy when the Stasi showed. If you are lucky enough to get in the nut-house, be cool, down the paper bucket of Thorazine, walk the halls nude, wrap a cigarette in the lip of the foreskin of your uncircumsized   cock, let it dangle as you move, light the cigarette and walk down the hall.  Open your jaws, pointing at your mouth like a geek, waiting for someone to throw a live starling or rat your way to chomp on, but it's OK because, your nuts pointing to your mouth, dry, saliva-less, apparent, teething like a baby.

In the morning, drink plenty of coffee, eat some grits and eggs, then chat up a girl in the ward you like, another nut-case like you, fuck her like crazy in an empty closet, then run out the door in your leopard skin speedo and go for a swim in the sea. Life is good if you know how to play the system.