February 2 is a day "celebrated" for a certain rodent. As entertaining as that continuing saga may be, what really makes the day special is that for the millions who suffer with seasonal affective disorder, February 2 is a bellwether. If one has not decided to end it all by February 2, then chances are better than 50-50 that one should make it to Winter's end.
This year, on Groundhog Day Eve, we here at Midnight and other beasts encourage you to put out your offering for Old Bucky. This Sunday night, before setting in for that long Winter's nap, place a small table or stool next to your fireplace. A milk crate will do. If there is no fireplace or mantle in your home, then place it in your largest, first-floor bathroom. Or your only bathroom, if that is the case. Upon your offertory table, stool or milk crate, please set out all of your soon-to-be-expired anti-depressants and/or anti-anxiety medications, accompanied by a quart (give or take) of vodka. If no vodka is available, a bottle of Nyquil is an acceptable substitute.
Are you ready? I think the little bastard is going to be snowed in this year. What happens then? And will the Buzzards maintain their appointed rounds six weeks hence? Stay tuned...
The check in had been easy. A weekday, technically still afternoon. The evening refugees from the highway, only a little more than one hundred yards distant, had not yet arrived. After presenting his Hilton Honors card, he decided to ask if they had a jacuzzi suite available. They did, room 313, for $145 a night. He booked it, paid and had a couple of key cards for the room inside of ten minutes. It was more than he typically would pay for one night's stay, but this wasn't a typical day. Today it was worth it.
When he returned to the lot Vic found Tammy, casually leaning against the side of the car, smoking a cigarette. She looked so... young! For just that instant Vic heard a scolding voice inside his head. You're old enough to be her father, you piece of shit! This was followed almost instantly by another voice inside his head replying, Yeah, don't care. She's an adult. When he arrived within earshot of her, he realized that wasn't a cigarette she was smoking.
"Hey! Hope ya don't mind I decided to start without ya. This shit's really loud, ya know? Didn't wanna stink up your ride."
"Yeah? That's real nice of you. Pass it over!"
They spent ten minutes out there, leaning against Vic's car and sharing that joint in a chill March wind. Vic now had some context for her meaning of the term "loud", though he was missing this property out in the open air. Just as most do not drink beer for it's taste, there are few who smoke weed for it's smell. Of course, the smell of beer is hardly an indicator for it's potency. As it had been quite some time since he'd had any, Vic was woefully unprepared for this. The strain that had been gathered that day was of a variety that some might refer to as "creep weed". After smoking three quarters Vic could feel that familiar buzz and was ready to tag out. He wouldn't become aware of how baked he was until they went inside Longnecks for their early dinner.
At ten of 5:00 the two of them entered Longnecks, not reeking, but certainly carrying a hint of the herb upon themselves. The first warning sign to Vic came the moment the entry door closed behind them. The inside of the establishment was reasonably well lit, but following the dun white skies it was like entering a cave. He felt frozen in his tracks as his eyes adjusted. Then suddenly, the panic seized him. All of his periphery was darkened and fuzzy, leaving him very concerned for whatever might be lurking there. The only thought that remained clear was that he wanted to reach the bar. There was a narrow tunnel of light, cast from the row of flat screens mounted over the bar. They just needed to follow the light for thirty feet.
There was a hostess seated at the cashier's station to their left. Marla. Vic had not seen her. Marla was thirty-something, had one of those cynical faces that said nothing would surprise her. She had instantly caught a whiff of them, bringing a smirk to one corner of her mouth. She looked them over, trying to sort out what was their deal. This is one of those valuable life lessons that one learns from being a hostess in a sports bar.
They did present quite the pair. There was the tall, lean figure of a man who looked to be in his late forties. Salt and pepper hair, well-tailored wool jacket, grey slacks and some expensive looking shoes. Probably some kind of sales rep or insurance executive. And the girl. The girl didn't fit. A daughter? She looked young enough. She looked like she had dug her clothes out of a Salvation Army donation bin. Maybe a college student? Maybe this was some kind of neo-punk fashion statement. Marla was kind of digging the black converse. Could this be some kind of daddy-daughter smoke down date?
"Hey, y'all. You folks want a table, or would you like to sit at the bar?"
Tammy and Marla both giggled a little when Vic jumped, he was so startled by her sudden appearance. He recovered quickly, didn't seem to notice their amusement.
"Yeah... we're just gonna... yeah, the bar's good."
Marla just waved them on then. No reason to get up, no reason to think about them anymore. They were Paul, the bartender's problem now. They shuffled onward to the bar, where surely adult beverages and cooked vittles awaited them. Vic felt like he was wearing lead boots. It was taking a frightfully long time to cover that thirty feet.
At last, they were there. Vic collapsed onto a stool; Tammy took the one on his right.
"Jesus, Vic... you okay? Don't stroke out on me!"
"No, no... nothing like that. What the fuck did you put in that weed?"
"I told ya it was some good shit!"
"Yeah... fair. You did. Holy shit!"
"Ya know what you need, Vic? You need a drink!"
Yes. Indeed. A drink and many more. The evening was young and there were great hills to be conquered. They began with two 24oz tall drafts. They both had a serious munch on, ordered a fifteen piece wings, a basket of smothered fries. When the food arrived there were two more tall drafts. And an order for a bacon cheeseburger.
For the next hour and a half they gorged themselves on draft beers and fried foods. A sparse crowd filtered in during that time, all taking seats at a distance from them. The closest of any were a pair of hard hat types, huddled over beer and shots at the end of the bar to their right. Tammy gave up on the drink after her second tall. Vic had four. Throw a few double bourbons into that mix. By 7:00 Vic was in the full throes of a crunk attack. At 6:00 Tammy had dropped two more 500 oxys. It is a good thing they closed the check when they did. Shortly after 7:00 they weaved their way to the exit and out into the waiting darkness.
It had grown colder out. The wind, which was coming right at their faces, had picked up, now spitting cold sleet. The frigid air was bracing, restoring just enough sobriety to arrive at the idea of going to the car to smoke another joint. It was another of those minor miracles to be found in mind altering substances; those fleeting moments of clarity only serve to remind that you still want more. They felt like they were racing to get in the car. It was more of a wobbly jog, comical to any who may have been watching. Thankfully, there were none.
They each slammed their doors shut behind them at the same time and Vic immediately started the engine. He set to the fan and temperature controls, ignored the wipers. They weren't driving anywhere.
"I'll roll us another one in a minute. I gotta warm up a little! Feel like my nips are gonna break off!"
"We sure don't want that."
"Right?"
That 6:00 dose was really kicking in now. Part of it was the cold, part of it was him. It had been a while since she had found herself this excited for a man. Part of her wanted to go for his pants and give him head right there in the car. But that's what you did with a John. Vic wasn't a John. She wanted to fuck him.
"What kinda music ya like, Vic? Do ya like country?"
"Fucking hate it."
"Oh... I bet you're a classic rock guy, then? Am I right?"
"Yeah, I suppose you could say that. So, if I put some music on will that get you to roll that joint?"
She knew he was only teasing her and responded in kind. "Put on somethin' sexy, maybe I'll give ya a dance", she pouted seductively.
"Yeah? In the car? How you gonna do that?"
"I could show you...", she couldn't resist any longer, reaching over and placing a hand on his crotch, "... show you mine, if you show me yours." She purred over dramatically to keep it playful, but the way she was groping him through his trousers said she wasn't just playing.
"That sounds like a lot of fun, sweetheart, but we got a room for that. Last time I got laid in a car I was seventeen. Let's smoke that joint, then you go get your shower..."
She withdrew her hand with mock offense and then grinned. "You're right. I wanna get good and fucked up, then I am gonna do you right." She pulled out the bag and papers, improvising a tray out of the glove box. It was just beginning to warm up inside the car. When she finished the task, she held it up for Vic to take. "Here...got something else for ya...", as she replaced the bag and papers inside her coat, she fished another bag out, placing it in her lap. "Here, take a couple of these." She handed him two of her oxys and the rest of her Mountain Dew from earlier. "So, where ya wanna smoke that thing, Vic? "
He downed the pills without hesitation. "Gimme a light, will ya? We're gonna smoke it right here in the car. Too fuckin' cold out there!"
"Cool! You want me to crack the windows? I know you don't wanna stink up your car."
"It's okay. Doesn't matter anymore."
They did crack the windows, with the front panel heat at full force. Most of the smoke escaped, but they still managed to create quite a cloud inside the car. Tammy didn't think too much about what changed his mind, chalking it up to being so buzzed. She was feeling no pain herself. The fresh dose of the potent weed, atop the oxys and the drinks, was leaving her tingling all over. All she could think about was getting out of these clothes and into a hot shower. She wanted to be nice and clean for him.
They smoked two thirds of it, until Vic had a coughing fit. It was enough, he tagged out. Both of them having achieved their stated desire to get really fucked up, they then hastened indoors, to the elevator and to the warmth of room 313 beyond. Left out of the elevator, three quarters of the way down the hall, on the left. Right where the desk said it would be. He took the key cards from his jacket pocket, handed one to Tammy, and then fumbled with the other until the familiar click opened the door. He pushed the door open and bid her to enter.
Vic stepped in right behind her and hit the wall switch on his right. It was as big a reveal to him as it was for Tammy. He hadn't taken the time to check the room earlier. In his intoxicated state he was only vaguely aware that maybe he should have, but all turned out well. The entrance was a very short hallway, with an alcove closet to the right and a full-length mirror opposite. The hall continued for ten feet, until reaching an archway that framed the room beyond. It was standard fare for a Hampton, variations on a theme of taupe, clean, well furnished.
Tammy passed through the arch and turned to her right, then gasped in shock. After a very short wall the space opened up into the jacuzzi suite. It was a cool, blue tile throughout with a bank of mirrors, a glass doored shower and a whirlpool tub set into the floor. A toilet and sink were partitioned off in one corner with a door. Otherwise, the space was open, looking over a king with plush bedding.
"Oh! Fuck yeah! I'm havin' a bath! This is awesome, Vic!"
Vic followed her and watched on as she rushed to start the bath. It was pretty nice. Better than he'd have expected for Richwood, Kentucky. He'd been surprised they even had such a suite. This one was actually one of two on site.
He'd grabbed a gym bag from the back seat of the car, slung over his left shoulder. He unloaded it, dropping it casually on the bed, and then sat down next to it. The tap was roaring, echoing off of the tile as steam began to rise. Tammy was saying something, but he couldn't make out what it was over the water. She continued testing the water, adjusting the knobs until having it just right. Vic leaned back on the bed, drunk, stoned as fuck and now the oxys were starting to kick in.
Once she'd found the right balance of temperature, Tammy arose to stand over the tub, watching it fill. As the steam gathered, she began to methodically disrobe, keeping her back to him. He knew she was teasing him and he was enjoying the show. Stripped down to the waist she still appeared to be a very small-framed girl. Her back was creamy white skin, without a single blemish. Unlike most young women of the day, there was hardly any ink on her. She had a small, red rose tattoo on her right shoulder. Unencumbered of any top, her wiry mane spilled freely across her slender neck. When she slowly unpeeled her jeans, it was clear this was no girl, but indeed a woman. Her hips were broad and limber, her ass full and firm. Before even seeing the front of her, Vic could tell that she had given birth. At least once. She hadn't made any mention of children and he never asked.
She continued to tease, keeping her back turned to him as she stepped into the tub. He noticed one other tattoo, on her left hip. It was black, maybe a gothic script. It looked like it might be a name, but he didn't get a clear look at it before she melted into the water. She gave out a deep sigh of satisfaction as she swirled about in the tub, finding the right spot to recline before turning on the jets. She had a direct view to Vic over on that bed. Most guys would already have their pants off by now.
"Hey! Whatcha doin' over there? Plenty of room in this bath! Get your clothes off and bring that cock over here!"
Vic could not decline that invitation. Though he could barely stand up, he managed to strip bare in two steps and strut proudly into the bath with a full hard on. For the better part of the next two hours, he proceeded to defile her from head to toe. They started in the tub, moved to the bed and back again. They drained the water and dried... and continued on the bed. She straddled him, grinding against him until she had come at least six more times. She was raw. Spent.
Vic lay upon his back with her curled up on his right side, her backside pressed against him. He examined the tattoo on her hip more closely.
"What does that say, that tattoo on your hip? Is that a name?"
"No. Just a word. Bail."
He absorbed this in silence. So fucked up. Had to wonder what it meant but could barely form the question. After several minutes it came to him in the fog.
"What... what is that? I mean... what does it mean?"
"Okay, so it's kinda like... it's like this philosophy in a word. Somethin' I got from an old boyfriend. It's like... like it's okay to fuck up, right? No matter what you do, shit will always fuck up, so stop trying so hard for other people. Accept the consequences of being who you are, just "bail" on everything else."
"Whoa! That's some deep shit. Sounds like Bukowski. So, do you believe that?"
"I don't know any more. I must have believed once. I got talked into the tattoo, right?"
Vic was nodding off, thinking. Bail. Accept the consequences of being who you are. It was completely relatable.
Vic never did decide which direction he was going to go. He didn't have to. When this day had started, he only knew he was headed south. Maybe Texas, maybe Florida. He was looking for signs along the way to tell him which.
He had taken four grand out of the bank, what he reckoned was enough for two weeks. If the docs were right, he wouldn't need any more than that. Vic was on a mission to find a good place to die.
When he was first diagnosed, it was already considered that it was likely too late. The tumor had to be classified as inoperable. It wrapped about the spine, assuring that any attempt at surgery would at best result in total paralysis. There were some "hail Mary" options with radiation and chemo, but the only thing these could guarantee were a foreseeable future of nausea and vomiting unto death. If he did nothing? Maybe a couple of weeks. He decided those two weeks were going to be his. All his. Not answering to anyone again, just walking silently into the void.
Sometime in the night Vic just stopped breathing. Tammy had drifted in and out of a slumber, never coming fully awake. She didn't notice that he had not moved until about 3:00AM, when she had to get up to pee. When she returned to the bed, he looked very tempting to her. She decided that she'd try to arouse another round, but very quickly found that something was wrong. He had begun to go cold. At the instant she realized what had happened, she uttered a reflexive "Oh fuck!"
The adrenaline rush of panic is ten times more sobering than any cold air. Tammy had no idea that Vic had been ill in any way. Her thoughts immediately leaped to the frightening conclusion that the oxys, combined with the liquor, had caused his heart to stop. She'd heard of shit like that happening. They were pills that he had got from her, pills that she had without a prescription. Oh fuck, oh fuck! Her heart was pounding. She had rapidly convinced herself to get the fuck out of this room, out of this hotel. Maybe go to Waffle House until the rest of the world woke up.
She forced herself to slow down her breathing. Calm down. Get dressed, gather up all your shit. She hadn't really done anything wrong. She met a guy next door at dinner, came back to his room and fucked him. She had to leave; he was alive when I left. I don't know where he got any pills. I never saw any pills.
She finished dressing, looked around the room. She would hold on to the bag. Vic couldn't use it. No sense letting the damn cops have it! She looked on the body one last time. Shame. Hell of a good fuck. As she turned away, she stepped on his jacket. It made her freeze for a minute. She could not resist. She knelt down to search inside the pockets. There was a bank envelope with nearly thirty-four hundred dollars in small bills. The cops would probably pocket it anyway. She might as well take it too.
She couldn't look at him again. She slipped out the door quietly, instinctively looking both ways in the hall before creeping to the stairwell. Once the hall door shut behind her Tammy hustled down those flights of steps and lunged at the exit door, like she was underwater, clawing to the surface.
Cold! Cold air. The sleet and wind had ended and there was no one on the street. Just the empty, cold night. Tammy cinched up her hood and braced herself for the walk. She could probably make it over to the Waffle House in ten minutes. Fifteen tops.
On that day Tammy accepted the consequences of who she was. She was a whore with an opiate addiction. Sometimes even a whore is deserving of some kindness. She didn't really know who Vic was, or his story. She had paid him the only kindness she had to give. She was truly sorry that he had died. She thought that maybe, just maybe, this could be a turning point for her. But probably not. She plucked a couple more oxys from inside her coat pocket and choked them down dry. Off to the Waffle House, then. Now it was Thursday.
The conclusion of the gripping short story Bail continues apace. Expect before the end of this week. Maybe even today. Definitely by Friday.
So I have my morning tea, and I am sitting, writing. Like I do. I use these times to block out all the other noise. As a consequence, I often miss weather reports and other reports that may, or may not be of any consequence at all. I consider even weather reports being part of the broader "noise". They have tried to science it up too hard. Forecasting is easy, just look out your window. Doesn't really matter what the weather is doing anywhere else, now does it?
I suddenly realize that my short sleeve shirt ain't getting it done. There is a bit of a chill on. After taking the precious time to investigate this, I discover that we are under a winter weather alert. Great! When it gets here I'll worry about it. Maybe. No promises.
Well, the stove is all prepared. It's not too cold yet, so I decide to make a change in wardrobe. Going through a dresser drawer of sweatshirts, I spotted one in an olive drab. Perfect. I love dull and understated colors. When I got this thing unfolded it revealed a caption on the front. I love shirts with captions. This thing had for some reason been buried in the drawer. Almost like somebody didn't want me to wear it anymore. The caption on this shirt reads "I hate people". It proclaims my solidarity with Sartre.
I thought about it for almost a whole minute. Okay, more like twenty-five seconds. Maybe I should put the shirt back. I put the shirt back. We just lost Bob Weir. And Scott Adams. They were people. They were good people who weren't haters. So, for a day at least, I can suspend my general disdain for humanity. Plenty of time for that later. With the passing of these two individuals we all need to remind ourselves, that despite all appearances, not everybody on the planet is an asshole. Just most of them.
I opted instead for a heavy, black tee with a Rick and Morty motif. It's Mr. Meseeks proclaiming, "Existence is pain". I love shirts with captions. I can work with this one for today, celebrating the fact that neither Bob nor Scott are feeling any more pain.
Quentin Tarantino. You love him or you hate him. Whichever side of that divide one finds themselves on, a consensus is easily formed to say that the man and his work are controversial. It would also be fair to say that much of this controversy stems from the Tarantino hallmark of gratuitous violence. Only those who are uninitiated to the Tarantino film have any right to be outraged at the content. If you have already seen a Tarantino film, then there should be the expectation of over-the-top gore and brutality. Tarantino's career has elevated this type of film to create a genre, bearing the name of one of his most famous films, Pulp Fiction. The thing describes itself.
Now... apologies for the lengthy preamble. It needed to be said before I might continue. Speaking for myself, I am not a fan of most Tarantino films. Just not a fan of the genre, generally speaking. There is one notable exception: 2019's Once Upon a Time in Hollywood. No matter what else is ever said about this film, we can take comfort in the fact that we'll always have the flamethrower.
I went to see the film at the theatre. I had never gone to see any Tarantino film at the theatre in my life. I went expecting that it would be filled to the brim with blood and guts, yet I went, nonetheless. The reason for this is uncomfortable, yet undeniable. Like every other American alive at the time of the Manson Family murders, our lives are inescapably marked by this event. We are driven as a moth to the flame, to anything even adjacent to one of the ugliest episodes in our history. With equal parts shame and morbid curiosity, we can not look away from it. I can admit it. This is what made me want to see this film.
What I witnessed in the theatre had enough of that raw and gritty edge to it, as to clearly identify it as a Tarantino film. Despite this, I was seeing the most un-Tarantino film the man has ever made. This was a rich and brilliant period piece. Most people have this image of the sixties as all peace, love and hippies. It wasn't. 1969 was an exclamation point, viciously slashed upon the portrait of a decade marked by intrigue, assassination and war. That is just the American experience. The average American today could not fathom the horrors of Mao's China during the sixties. This was a violent, ugly decade. Juxtaposed upon all these social paroxysms, there still existed that southern California of the Mamas and Papas' California Dreamin'. The film captured this dichotomy, subtly and, in true Tarantino fashion, sometimes not so subtly.
When I learned that there was to be a sequel, to be titled The Adventures of Cliff Booth, I was hardly surprised. This didn't seem to be a film upon which one might build a franchise. The choice of Cliff Booth instantly changes this. Brad Pitt's character from the first film was the only one you could really give a shit about. The DiCaprio character, Rick Dalton, was just a dick. I will admit a certain bias with regard to the performers, but if you saw the film, you know what I mean. So, if there was any sequel to be made, I can see no other direction to take it.
I will now attempt to convince you that Cliff Booth's story is a story worth telling. And why. Let's begin with who this man is. Some say the character is inspired by Hollywood stunt legend, Hal Needham. There may be some truth in that, but the character represents so much more than this. Although the little back story we are given for this character is vague, we are at least told that Cliff Booth was a decorated WWII veteran. From this we can piece together that he would have served in the years 1942-45. That would likely place his date of birth somewhere around 1925. That makes the Cliff Booth character of 1969 a man in his mid-forties. More importantly, it places him in that generation of young men who flocked to southern California in those post-war years.
One of the main reasons that this peace and love mythology of the sixties survives, is that the story of the period is given to us solely as a narrative of it's youth. Somebody gave birth to those brats. Somebody housed and fed them, educated them and then turned them loose on the world. That somebody would be Cliff Booth's generation. Even though Cliff doesn't have any children of his own (that we know about), it is Cliff Booth's generation of young men that fathered those hippies. They tried to provide a good upbringing to those kids, there in that southern Californian oasis they had forged with their own hands.
The modern Los Angeles we see in Once upon a time was built by these men in the post-war years. They built the homes and subdivisions; the schools and strip malls; they built the highways, the phone lines, the electric grid. They came for the climate and the pretty girls. And the work. They stayed for the careers, the mortgages, the marriages good or bad. They built much of the modern infrastructure, but more than this, they built a culture that became a beacon to youth for a generation to come.
The image of those men shines to us in celluloid; the sandy-haired, rakish rogue, rugged and self-reliant. A memory of what we used to be. Cliff Booth would almost certainly be dead today. Probably even fifteen years ago. What has died with him is that California of legend that we know from film and song. The hippies and seekers that Cliff Booth's generation spawned, grew into the seventies' "me generation", then later morphed into what Thompson aptly tagged "the generation of swine". The southern California of today is the kingdom of swine, ruled by the children of swine. I'm glad old Cliff isn't around to see it.
The legacy of Cliff Booth's California is not to be found in anything that exists today. Today, roughly a year after the Palisades fires, the legacy of Cliff Booth's California is to be found sifting through the ashes there. Provided one can obtain "permission" to enter.
I am looking forward to the film. I hope that it does not disappoint. I would encourage others to go see it. Or watch it on Netflix, whatever they are doing with the release. That seems a bit unclear right now. I encourage people to see this film for the same reason I would encourage a time traveler to visit 1662. Be sure to see the Dodo before the last one is gone.
Friday, January 9, 2026
Bail, part 2 dropped today. The concluding part 3 to come next week
The ride back into Cincinnati had been relatively painless. It was early enough in the afternoon to avoid the snarl of the evening rush. They had ended up in a run-down section of town, just to the west of the downtown and still close to the river. Vic recalled making a turn at the corner where a Ma and Pop chicken shack sat on the river road. He didn't make any note of street names or addresses; this wasn't a place he had any plans to return to. Tammy wasn't much good on these kinds of details anyway; she just knew her way around.
She had asked him to stop a few blocks away from the corner. He was old enough to know how this worked. You didn't park right outside this kind of market. The neighborhood had an ugly vibe. He didn't fear for his physical safety, but he had an uneasy feeling about the attention a late model sedan with Michigan plates might attract in this block. He remembered her earlier plea of having no money. He had to consider that she might be trading on some other than legal tender for whatever she was buying. That could take a while. Maybe not, but probably.
"Okay, listen... I know that there is probably no way you can say for sure, but if this is gonna take a while maybe I should..."
"You're cool here. No worries!"
"... drive around and come back?"
"It won't take me long." She paused there, long enough to draw a breath, then quickly added, "You want anything, Vic?"
He was taken completely off guard by the question. His eyebrows rose and he uttered a reflexive , "Me!?" He noted that she seemed to giggle at his surprise. Feeling mildly insulted by this, he then parried with a sarcastic, "Are you buying?"
"Well, I only got enough money to get my pills...." There it was. She had money, but only for pills. Shit. She was into this bad. "... I mean I could share some with ya, sure...but what I meant was, like do you want some green? This dude's got some good shit. It's pretty loud. Sixty for a quarter or hundred for a half."
Vic didn't have a clue what "loud" meant in this context. Was it the price? He had to think long and hard to recall when he had last purchased a half ounce of weed. Twenty years? Maybe twenty-five? There was a hazy recollection of seventy-five for a half. After several seconds had passed, Vic decided to say fuck it. He felt like getting baked. He heard himself repeat her, "hundred for a half", as he peeled off five twenties and handed them to her across the console.
Tammy took the bills, deftly folded them over and slipped them beneath her hoodie. "Okay. Probably take like ten minutes."
She headed up the block, following the row of homes, until turning into one of the yards and then disappearing behind the house. Vic took a quick glance into his rear view mirror. Nothing. He was thinking that in the next ten minutes, either some ape was going to try to roll him, or they'd be leaving with a cache of pain-killers and a half ounce of weed. Thankfully, for all parties concerned, the latter of these possibilities prevailed.
By 4:00 PM they had completed the giant U-turn to the Richwood exit where they'd first met. Tammy had eagerly gulped a couple of pills before they even got back onto 75 south. In the ninety minutes or so that elapsed on that trek, she had become a chatty Cathy. Vic had been informed of a substantial part of her existence. At least her version of it.
If she was to be believed, Tammy was a widow of three years. She had married a man seventeen years her senior when she was but twenty years old. That part at least was true. Her version of events was that her deceased husband had died on the operating table, quite unexpectedly. That was partially true. He had died in a hospital, but not during any surgery. Vic had no way of learning this, but the truth was that Tammy's husband had undergone back surgery in the first year of their marriage. Like so many others before him, he had become addicted to the prescribed pain killers. Tammy had subsequently joined in the addiction and carried on that tradition following his death by overdose.
According to her narrative, she was from Cincinnati originally, but now lived (at least part of the time) with a great aunt in Richwood. While there were elements of truth in this story, it was not entirely true. She had grown up in Cincinnati and she did have a great aunt who lived in Richwood. The part about her living there part time was a stretch of the truth. The truth was that her great aunt did sometimes help her out, but Tammy did not have a key for the residence. She wasn't allowed to be there unless her great aunt happened to be home at the time. There had likely been no more than a half dozen times in the past year that Tammy had actually slept at that house.
On that particular day Tammy's great aunt was at work, so she was locked out. She had started her day with a trucker, way east off of 275, up on the Ohio side of the river. After they had concluded the deed she was able to tag a ride along south, to the Richwood Pilot travel center. She had been hoping to get a shower and a change of clothes at her great aunt's house, before getting on to Cincinnati for her pills. One might think that a girl in her position, needing a ride back north, would have best returned to the Pilot to find another "job" and her ticket back to Cincinnati. In most cases this would be correct, but Tammy had already been run off the lot at that location. Several times. Pros who were discretely chauffeured were welcome; freelancers such as herself were not.
The Mini-mart on the other side of the freeway was her ultimate target anyway. Even if her great aunt had been home, that was never going to be anything other than a shower stop. She would never give Tammy a lift to pick up her drugs. Tammy had a handful of other "sometimes" friends in and around Richwood. Some of them pure Johns, some of them fellow users. If she waited long enough one of them was sure to show up at the store. Or maybe even someone new. Like Vic. Of course, Vic didn't know any of this. The version he was given was a half truth; that she was actually staying at her great aunt's house now, and since she had no car, she was awaiting a ride at the Mini-mart. Had he wanted, Vic could easily have poked holes in that tale, but the truth was he just didn't care. She could have told him anything.
When they had passed the sign marking one mile to the Richwood exit, Vic managed to squeeze in a word edgewise. He still had not decided which direction he would go or where he wanted to stop for the day. He still had not decided whether or not he wanted Tammy along for the ride.
"Hey, we're coming up on Richwood. You want me to drop you at your great aunt's house?" It was only for an instant, but he could see her face screw up into a frown of distaste, like she had gotten a mouthful of sour milk. When she knew he was looking she quickly recovered, her face brightening.
"Can't smoke dope at my aunt's house, Vic!", she chided him playfully.
Yes. There was the dope. He had refused risking lighting anything up in the car. He really did want to smoke some of that dope. Maybe Richwood was as good a place as any to stop for the night. Yeah. Have a good dinner, get really baked. Maybe get laid. Then, in the morning he could decide: Louisville or Lexington. That choice would await him just a few miles down the road. It was at that moment Vic made the third most consequential decision of the day.
"I'm gonna go ahead and pull off here. Where's a good place for dinner in Richwood?"
Tammy was a girl who had a serious daddy Jones. It truly was not because of some incestuous childhood. She had discovered this about herself at a young age and simply accepted it. If one were to say that she had "daddy issues", meant in the general sense that the term is usually offered, then it was at least partially true. She had felt mostly ignored by her father, who doted entirely on her three younger brothers. She wasn't consciously aware whether or not this was the reason; she only knew that the older, "daddy" figure was what got her motor running.
She felt she was reaching the peak of her first dose, that moment when the warm blanket of euphoria fully enveloped her being. From within this cocoon waves of arousal began to stir. To her tastes, Vic was quite an attractive man. She had already begun to think naughty thoughts of what she would like to do with him. She wanted to reply to his question with a bawdy, "in your pants!", but she couldn't muster the courage. She bit her lip instead and smiled quietly to herself. She might even have blushed. Just a little.
"I dunno, Vic. What kind of grub do you like? We got Chipotle, Waffle House... there's Cattleman's or Longnecks if you like steak or bar food."
"Which one's better, Longnecks or Cattleman's?"
"Longnecks has good wings. You like wings? I like wings!"
"Well, guess we're going to Longnecks. Just tell me the way. Oh! I need to stop and get some papers too... "
"Nah... I got papers. Just go right up here. It's right around the corner."
A right, another right and up past the frontage road on... what the hell did that road sign say? Frogtown Connector Road? That was one to remember. It wasn't far to go at all; the place was literally right around the corner from the exit ramp. And there was the Hampton Inn he'd seen from the interstate right next door. He was a Hilton Honors member. This was going to work out well.
Vic had announced his intent to exit at Richwood, without objection. He had offered to drop her at her great aunt's house, with rejection and instant deflection. He hadn't yet told her of his intention to stay at this hotel. He really wasn't sure what reaction he might get when he told her, but it made more sense to check in to the hotel before dinner. The subject then became unavoidable. If he was completely honest, if he was brave enough, he would have told her of his plans in full. He was going to smoke some dope, have a good dinner with drinks, smoke some more dope, then take her back to his room and fuck her senseless.
Before they turned into the drive he told her, "I'm going to go ahead and check in here, next door. I plan on getting fucked up enough that I'm not gonna be driving anywhere, so..." He left the sentence hanging, almost like a question, awaiting any reaction.
"That's cool. After dinner I want to get a shower, then fuck your brains out. Hurry up, I'm starved!"
"Sounds like a plan. Why don't you roll us a joint while I get checked in? Then we can get this party started."
There are few universal constants. Here is one: whenever you get bad news, there is always more. Bad news is administered like a vaccine. A real vaccine, not the clot shot. Given in microdoses, it serves as a tool to stimulate immunities in the patient. It prepares the patient for the continued exposure to larger doses of the same pathogen. Yes, that's right folks. I am saying that Nick Shirley's reporting, and everything that has been peeled back since, is just a microdose of the bad news that is to follow.
The conditions that have existed to permit this scale of fraud did not occur by accident. That condition occurred by design because someone would profit from it. In the case of Columbus, Ohio, the Somali variant of this scourge goes back to 1994. That gravy train is a train a long time runnin'. Remember the reports in the summer of 2024? When the Haitians were turning up nightly for the buffet at the Springfield Petland store? Then there were some local, independent investigative reporters who actually connected the dots and found that the then republican Mayor was profiting through a property management company, with payments delivered from the feds to house all of the illegals. At his properties. The illegals that he was responsible for bringing into Springfield to begin with. This story, unfortunately, did not go viral like Mr. Shirley's reporting.
In the case of Columbus, scams like the Springfield fraud have been going on in one form or another for decades. It knows no party distinctions. The entire political class think that we are all stupid. Considering how long they have been getting away with it, one is not wrong to consider that they may be right. But we're not all stupid. There are enough of us who are paying attention. The vapid shills in legacy media, who slavishly carry their water, find that their powers of persuasion are greatly diminished and fading fast. The truth will be uncovered. Eventually. Maybe not every single bit of it, but enough to rattle a lot of cages.
Some of us have been paying attention long enough to have watched this shit show unfold in slow motion, over years. We've been paying attention long enough to have seen that the accelerator was increased during the Obama years and hyperdrive during the biden residency. As all this has unfolded and brought us to where we are today, I have had the sense that I had seen all this somewhere before...
Many years ago I started third grade. That was a very warm September. It was hot and dry, the playground grass already turned that special shade of yellow. Early in that school year, probably toward the end of that first month, a classmate discovered a preying mantis in the hedges. A couple of kids managed to herd this poor creature onto a stick. Quite proud of their trophy, the mantis was paraded into the classroom at the end of recess.
Our teacher, a grandmotherly type named Mrs. Rockwell, didn't seem terribly keen on this bug at first. Then she spied upon something in the classroom that sparked an idea. In one corner, over by the windows, there sat an empty aquarium tank. The previous occupant, a hamster, had been rescued by a student at the end of the prior school year. Mrs. Rockwell told the boys to put the stick and the mantis into the tank. For a moment I think there was some thought of this as an educational exercise in natural science.
This naturally led to the question, "What do preying mantises eat? We'll have to feed it, won't we?" Third graders are generally not up to speed on these matters. We deferred to Mrs. Rockwell's wisdom. We were told that during our afternoon recess we should gather crickets. Crickets were what preying mantises liked to eat.
Well, if you don't remember, I will remind you of another deficiency in a third graders knowledge. Third graders are not very good at all in distinguishing the difference between a cricket and a grasshopper. Anyone who has lived in the Midwest can tell you that during those warm, dry days of late Summer and early Autumn, the lawns and grassy spaces are swimming with grasshoppers. You know, the big fat, crunchy green ones. Some people call them locusts.
As a consequence of not providing more detailed instruction, say perhaps a pictorial guide, there were probably ten or twelve grasshoppers gathered that afternoon. At the end of afternoon recess these were all delivered to the tank. We went home at the end of the day and that night had pleasant dreams of the mega mantis we were going to create.
The following morning we arrived back in our classroom and were quite astonished to find... a tank full of grasshoppers and no mantis. Mrs. Rockwell assured us all that the mantis must have escaped. We spent the rest of that day always on the lookout for the missing mantis. It wasn't until some years later that I understood what had really happened to the mantis.
As the regular readers of this page will know, we are devotees of that Bard of Prestwich, the late Mark E. Smith. Mark was the father of "the undilutable slang truth", which is a big part of our creed. I like to think that most who follow us have a general sense of undilutable slang truth.
"There are six people in the world. The rest of you are paste." MES
For any who may be unclear on the concept, this quote from the mouth of Mark himself, is an excellent distillation of the undilutable slang truth. It is at once undeniably true, yet utterly inconvenient to conventional wisdom; delivered in a snarling oblique criticism, unrepentant for it's honesty. As his words, so was the man. That is the ethic we strive for, otherwise we would not dare proclaim the undilutable slang truth on our banner.
Well, now that we have that out of the way, I suppose that I should at least mention that we have crossed the finish line of yet another year. Congratulations! If you're here, it means that you survived 2025. It's a new year and the beatings will continue until morale improves. Welcome 2026! What a fine hour to visit this gem of undilutable slang truth.
What was that thing they came up with? That whole "six degrees of separation" thing? This posits that the world has presumably shrunk to a degree that every person on the planet is separated by no more than a succession of six common acquaintances. It does not mean that the earth has literally shrunk. Most have a common understanding of the idea this term is meant to convey.
So, when Mark said ,"there are only six people in the world", he of course did not mean that literally. Think of this expression as the inverse of the six degrees of separation; instead, a six stages of insulation. These are the six individuals one can go to where there is a shared interest. Individuals with and in whom there is trust. Everything else that happens around this is only background noise. Everything else is strange, it's colorless, odorless, it's not your concern. It's just paste.
Not everyone has the same circle. Some may be larger than six, some are often smaller than six. For argument's sake we can say that six is the average. Plus, it maintains a nice symmetry with the whole "six degrees" thing. The changing of a year brings about a great deal of background noise. One becomes more acutely aware of the paste that surrounds us; thus, in contrast, one becomes more acutely aware of those six individuals who comprise their world.
I guess this is the part where I'm expected to offer a good word. Trying to stay positive. Add this to your voluminous collection of unsolicited advice left over from the holidays. In this new year, worry about the six people in your world. Or the four, the twelve, whatever your number. The rest of the world are paste pushers. They're gonna do what paste pushers do. No matter how many different ways they reshape or rename it, REMEMBER: it's still just paste.
Coming soon, here at Midnight and other beasts...
We will be featuring part two of the short story Bail. If you're catching up, part one was posted on 12 December.
Also, coming soon, we'll be doing something we have not done before on these pages. We'll be talking about a film, a film to be released later this year. Ok, we'll give you a clue. It's a sequel. I think. Prequel? Maybe? Anyway, stay tuned for that.
We will soon be entering our third year. There might be some kind of party. We'll see...
