Abused By Illusions

A new millennium a decade underway. The me generation, raised in the orgy of consumption that had been the 1980's, was beginning to gray and sag. I embarked on a trip to see if meaning still existed in these Disunited States of America. Or had hope and promise for the future been bled away to become the nightmare of Paranoia and Terror as the idiot box had been screeching at us for nearly a decade. Was I prepared for such a trip? Or would the madness and paranoia hanging low and heavy across the crumbling infrastructure engulf me as it had so many. Not taking any chances I had arranged for an arsenal at my final destination to fend off threats both real and spectral.


They pick me up at the site of my planes crash, for aren't all landings merely controlled crashes anyway, cleverly disguised as 1980's refugees. Out of the corner of my eye, my perception heightened by the five in-flight drinks , I can see their more sinister reptilian features flicker before once again shimmering back to that of 80's refugees today big hair has been replaced by thinning graying hair. Well that is except for the one that they call Papa Bear (did he eat all his cubs?) who wears his 80's mane like some sort of Zuli-Swilli tribe badge of courage! (Wouldn't his pop be proud --back hand delivered -- Bip)

I see that this trip is going to be one of those strange ones, no LSD needed, flashbacks saved from previous decades enough to fuel the wild ride coming. Hours or so it seems, steel belts humming an insane lullaby on the asphalt, co2dependence (a leopard by species) --a friend just made, doing the driving, as we circle round and round and round again the airport roundabout desperately seeking our egress from this TSA militarized zone! The seal, once again his flippers smelling of someone elses fish, screams for co2dependence to turn left as Papa Bear grips the oh shit handle like some joystick of the damned and screams no right!

The group is birthed out into Florida (land of the newly wed and the nearly dead) after bribing the polyester tufted highwayman stuffed in the glass booth. Birth pangs are quickly apparent as Papa Bear squeals (sounding like a squirrel birthing a watermelon) a languid line of curses about co2dependence's inability to drive.

Heading at breakneck speed, adrenaline and collective thirst propelling us, we careen into a house of spirits on the motherless Florida highway. The seal and I search up and down the isle for the perfect mood setting spirit. Pacing the aisles, like two deviants recently kicked from the last methadone clinic on the planet, we decide on two half gallons as one might not be enough in case of shipwreck or disaster. We quickly bribe the state licensed bootlegger and make our way back to the SS Hades and begin to bring her aft. Screech! We have forgotten a tobacco gift to appease the god of sand fleas and unrequited hopes. We reenter, the state licensed bootlegger, like a universal miracle morphs into an exotic tobacconist and extorts us for our pitiful two pack offering.

Back on the motherless Florida highway we head toward Papa Bear's suburban home for the damaged, disillusioned, and delusional. An animal shelter of sorts, it's exterior in compliance with the tightly packed decor of the surrounding suburb. Papa Bear, like the cat lady of lore, quickly introduces the scribbler to his grotto of broken miscreants.

The biggest alligator I ever encountered, with a goatee, meets us at the door and does what apparently is the standard security check for this refuge of the damned. I am in fear for what seems like hours, of a coming body cavity search, before he scowls and finally allows me to pass unmolested into the bowels of this sinister feeling grotto.

As I descend further into this grotto of the sick and twisted I become aware of a rabbit and a toucan chirping back and forth to each other in some indiscernible language. They each have a small laptop device and appear to be playing one of the latest devil worshiping games so popular among the younger set of heathens.

The seal enters the room occupied by the rabbit and toucan as each, almost looking as though it is synchronized, rolls his eyes. The seal, based upon the loud noises he is emitting, seems to be working himself into an orgasmic frenzy of sorts in his constant search for mislaid mullet. A panda emerges from down some unseen hall and scolds the seal imploring him not to awaken what he describes as a viscous kung fu skunk whom apparently is his mate. (What would that pair give one? A skanda or a punk?)

Suddenly a spider monkey races down the hall and burst into the room like a bullet fired from old scratches own gun. It squeaks that the seal has awoken it and its ferret mate. The seal pulls from his bag of tricks one of the many barbed sticks he carries there and pokes the spider monkey with it causing a large commotion. The entire house seems to chirp like some insane fun-house newly relocated from the lower tier of Hell. A roar is heard from Papa Bears cave as he burst down the hall sending the approaching toucan on a tumultuous spin across the room

I now know that I am in the thick of the most dangerous assignment ever. I am frozen in absolute paranoia and terror. Screw my editor for sending me on such an insanity laden suicide mission into the very heart of darkness . As vertigo begins to overtake me I open the first half gallon taking a long draw ....................Updates Later...............

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