72 hrs, 1234 miles: Round One

7:00am on Wednesday and my phone snaps me out of a sleep I fell into while sitting up. A Sick hectic daze from the last 12hrs of chaos claimed me while strapping on some pants. Flat broke and busted, but why not scream off into oblivion like bats out of hell. I'm late, The Devil, my counterpart on this little journey, is less then happy with my lazy approach to this the first moments of our 72 hour grind. Camera in hand I tear out of the house en route to Satan with only the thought of getting the fuck out of here thrashing around my mind, this is my emergency. I screech into The Devils abode and damn near tuck and roll out the drivers door, I am frenetic. Get me the fuck out of here. We waist no time and rip up the asphalt as we disappear over the grade screaming flat out into the skyline. There are ghosts where we're going and demons in the places left behind.

"Stockton's only a few miles away" said in a joyous fashion brings me to the realization that even the worst places, when framed against the bleak and gruesome back drop of a journey down the I-5, can seem promising. However Stockton is exactly as we remembered. The Devil pressures the gas just enough to get us through this spectacle unscathed. Perhaps luck isn't as far off as I'd imagined.

The passage between Heaven and Hell is soul splitting sexy on this, the thirteenth day of May, as we crest the top of our searing ascent from the lake of fire they call the central valley. I can feel the grime of drug traffic and field work strip away, cowering to the altitude and clarity as we step into the final hours in segment one of The Devil's fantastic journey. Even The Devil needs alignment at times.


My brain moves gently side to side as we hammer and glide through the sultry curve's making the mid spring body of our road goddess. The Devil and her seem to have come to agreement, though I wait with every racing dotted line for that to change.
Something like 7:15pm and the last of a flat golden dose of the old alch spins like black holes into my gullet. I reach down smashing the "Max Bet" button on the empty whore spread eagle in front of me, baiting the bartender to comp out another round, when the Devil herds us together in common pursuit of a sky on fire. Once again I've fucked off the task at hand. "Dear faceless Godhead, thank you for the Devil" I jot down on a mental napkin stored safely somewhere at the bottom of an empty glass reverie.

We charge outside and fire off snapshots like Korean war soldiers at the surging Tahoe skyline in a frantic attempt at capturing a moment passing at breakneck speed. My head digs in and out of a spiral stemming from the six beers I slammed attempting to make the most of my ten dollar investment in the greed machine.

The sun finally gets the best of our twilight affair and skates off out of sight, without even leaving her number. I check for my wallet and valuables. With that we make our path back into the great currency machine, checking only hope at the door and dreams for the cover. The Devil makes his way off into the night in preparation for tomorrows decent into the mad jungles of southern Nevada.

12:30pm, Our current conversation, terms of my apprenticeship in the Pro Leisure Tour, winds to a close and I raise a glass with The Devil's brother in celebration. With that he steps off into the void as Brother Ilk materializes out of it. With every blink I move deeper and faster into the closing seconds of round one in The Devil's fantastic journey. Until they close the final time on reality as I know it. All bets are on tomorrow, may the godhead be kind while we reset our minds.

-CB-