South Carolina is a pretty blank experience.  Drive drive 
drive as fast as you can.  "Let them live" signs decorate I-85's 
shoulders.  "250$ maximum fine and 30 days" is your penalty for 
speeding in a construction zone in South Carolina...go figure.  I 
slip past a sign with an enormous picture of an ostrich that 
reads, quite simply, "Ostrich!".  I laugh to myself and make a 
note to tell old Sil about it.  He has this theory that ostriches 
are a highly evolved form of life.  When earthbound dominance 
became all the rage in aviary circles, the mighty ostrich shed 
her wings, movin' on and movin' up that evolutionary ladder.

	The dryness in my throat carries me through South Carolina 
and up into her northern cousin.  North Carolina is also a pretty 
nowhere place until you reach Winston-Salem and Greensboro.  I 
considered stopping by to see my grandfather in Greensboro, but 
no one likes to see their future too soon.  I'm not much of a 
womanizer, but the smoking and drinking run in the family.  He 
has terminal lung issues, and still lights 2-3 up an hour.  
Perhaps he hopes he'll go out in a blaze of glory next to his 
oxygen tank instead of slipping quietly, naturally, into the 
darkness.  Nah, he's an addict...that's in our blood as well.  

	I choose Burlington to serve as my halfway point.  I stop 
off at a gas station, put my shoes back on, and pop the gas cap.  
Strange thing about the Southeast, they still trust people to 
pump their gas first, and then pay.  They gave up on that in the 
west years before I called it home.  Ignorance is bliss.  I fill 
the little green car up, and split.  Wonderful thing about 
Georgia, they only require front license plates, the attendant 
never saw me comin', and I was fueled up and on the highway again 
before the bucktoothed moron knew what hit him.  Maybe I'll grow 
up one day and pay for things like a good U.S. citizen....


...but I doubt it.

	An enormous roadside sign chock-full of prosthetically 
enhanced abominations to the feminine form springs forth from 
lines of tractor-trailer trucks.  The last American hat-tip to 
the myth of the siren song.  If you get them naked...and 
dancing...they will come...and then cum.  It's a lonely life 
driving a rig.  If it weren't truckstop hooks would never see the 
light of day.  There's really no other reason they are allowed to 
propagate.  

	I'm a firm believer in mandatory sterilization.  We've 
essentially striven for centuries, millennia, to remove ourselves 
from the path of Nature.  Cure all of her diseases, plant and 
desecrate her fields, forests, and oceans, for what?  So that the 
lowest common denominator of our species can slide out 3 to 10 
kids before slipping off this planet?  I have no love for Nature, 
but I have even less for the human race.  It's all math my 
children.  The Morons are slowly taking over, and their growth is 
exponential.  Unfortunately, the intelligentsia of humanity 
cannot be bothered with child bearing and rearing, so our 
recessive-gene-wielding brothers and sisters keep spitting out 
children with lightning speed, inevitably populating the Earth.  


The meek shall inherit nothing.  
The weak shall inherit this Earth.  


The gig is up.  We've been 'in charge' around here for far too 
long, and if we don't off ourselves, Nature will continue her 
fervent efforts to list us with the Dodo and the Dino, and that 
you can bet on.  If a sure thing ever existed, that's it.  It's 
better that way.  I'd like to see humanity have the dignity to 
implement mandatory sterilization of all newborns and face our 
destiny with pride ...but we won't.  We'll keep running full 
speed into the flames of our children's charred, war-torn, 
disease infested flesh until we collectively break the skin and 
all bleed to death.  A great crimson flood of ignorance that the 
ostriches will be writing about for centuries.   

	Between Durham, North Carolina and Richmond, Virginia there 
is a whole lot of nothing.  About ten miles across the Virginia 
border I decided to give my ass a break from the monotonous 
drive.  I'd brought along a little tea [weed] and pulled over to 
the side of the road to have a fix, and smoke a joint.  I chose a 
deserted gas station to sit about in, hiding my car from view.  
The evening was black but brilliantly lit with starlight.  I 
strolled into the woods with my works and picked a nice spot 
against a tree to do the deed.  

	I'd never taken a hit in the great outdoors before and I'll 
tell 'ya....there's a difference.  Every hippy from here to 
Berkeley, California will tell you that ANY experience is 
enhanced by Mother Nature...bullshit.  Pine needles poking 
through my trousers, constant paranoia of our non-friendly earth 
mates, the insects, and the biting cold of southern Virginia made 
for the lousiest H fix I've ever run across.  I lit the tea in 
hopes that it would even out my angst.  Sil had purchased this 
tea a few weeks ago, and I had saved a joint for a special 
occasion.  In California it was fairly common to come across good 
tea, but in Georgia, dirty, schwag weed was the commonplace buy.  
Good tea only came around when the yuppies-in-training came off 
break from the University of Georgia and brought home care 
packages from friends.  This tea was particularly rare in 
Georgia.  It was a slightly less potent version of the infamous 
Northern Lights, which if taken in the proper dosages evokes the 
loveliest THC laced hallucinations.  This strain wasn't 
hallucinatory, but gave a strong high.  With schwag, or Mexican 
weed, you get what is commonly referred to as 'stoned', tired, 
retarded, and unable to move a muscle...unless there is food 
around.  When you get high, you keep the same stamina and the 
mind functions very clearly with a tendency for overactive 
internalization of thought process.  You can start off thinking 
about how lovely the weather is, and the next thing you know 
you've solved the origin of the universe through complex mental 
math equations.  Of course you're dead wrong, but while you're 
high it all makes sooooo much more sense.  The tea mingled with 
my H euphoria and came on almost instantly.  My mind slipped 
across the past seven months.  

	I had to leave California in a hurry.  The Heat was closing 
in on Sil and I.  We had dabbled a bit in false documentation, 
mainly for the residents of East Los Angeles.  Some fuck got 
pinched by LaMigra, and began running his mouth all over the 
place about "a couple of Gringos forcing him to accept a false 
green card or they would blow the horn on his family."  I'd like 
to have gutted the ignorant Mexican bastard, but Sil has his own 
methods of 'sale', and his story was very likely close to the 
truth.  At any rate, I was being implicated alongside Sil, so we 
split looking for a place to cool down for a while.  We stopped 
through Vegas and I hit my mother up for a place to hide out and 
plan.  Sil and I decided on Athens, Georgia.  Why, you ask?  
That's precisely why we chose it, no one would ever look for the 
two of us there.  My sister was fresh out of options in Las Vegas 
and decided to come along for kicks...see what happened next.  It 
runs in our blood.  We hit the road the next day with two grand, 
three suitcases, a vial of hash oil, an ounce of tea, and sixteen 
cartons of cigarettes. 

	Neither Sil nor I had started using junk yet, and Sis would 
never touch the stuff.  She plays for a more responsible team 
than her older brother does.  We holed up in Ft. Smith Arkansas 
for the night and put a heavy dent in the drugs.  We dove 
headfirst into the quiet Southern town and took down steak 
dinners and as much alcohol as our road weary livers would sit 
still for.  Sis has never been a drinker, so when we returned to 
the hotel she put another dent in the tea.  The next day we slid 
out of Arkansas laughing heartily as we passed signs claiming 
Arkansas as "The Home of President Bill Clinton".  Well, folks if 
that's all you can say about your state, I'd leave it off the 
billboards.  They say even bad press is good press, but not in 
this case.  Arkansas residents have a bad enough reputation as it 
is; Slick Willy just makes it easier to laugh at them.  Aside 
from a quick detour past the gates of Graceland, we drove 
straight through to Athens.  

	We arrived at 2 AM, desperately needing a drink.  The bars 
all close at two, so we slid into an All-Nite-Diner on College 
Ave.  The kids working there had no qualms about serving us after 
hours, and we tipped gratuitously to show our appreciation.  
Athens is a college town, home of the Georgia Bulldawgs [and yes, 
that's how they spell it].  It's served as a backdrop for many a 
successful music career, and scores of veryvery unsuccessful 
music careers.  Like any other college town it teeters between 
backwoods charm and cultural maturity.  Unfortunately, owing 
mostly to its location nestled in the northeastern tip of 
Georgia, it leaned heavily towards backwoods.  The folks that 
were born and bred in the area are exactly like you think they 
will be, and the rest of the population battles steadily between 
old southern money fraternity kids, aging musicians, punk rockers 
who are too young to have even gazed upon the early Eighties, and 
the floating group of people that come in and out of Athens.  
Most of the latter group never leaves Athens for good.  They 
always come back.  It is a stop along the line.  A way station of 
life.  Unless you have the fortitude to pick up and get the hell 
out, Athens will wrap its Kudzu appendages around your soul and 
you will take your last breath on its pathetic soils.  Time seems 
to pause in Athens and the next thing you know, your thirtieth 
birthday passes and your band/art/writing failed, and you'll 
never have the money, drive, or stamina to escape.  That's what 
happens to most.  

	Sil and Sis and I made a point to lay low when we arrived.  
We rented a shabby three-bedroom house from the lousiest waste of 
human flesh I've ever come across, and settled in to wait out our 
fates.  Several months passed, Sis returned to the West, Sil and 
I broke down and got jobs.  I worked with two junkies, and the 
three of us could never talk about anything else.  There was 
nothing else to talk about.  All the three of us had in common 
was a love for Heroin, mine being a projected love of what I had 
been told Heroin was, and theirs' an intimate, long-term 
relationship with the drug.  After five months of discussion, and 
innumerable invitations to "party", I broke down and said yes.  

	I followed Kevin over to Kaitlyn's pad on Old Oconee St. 
Kevin knocked on the door and she answered in her nightgown.  She 
had gotten off of work a few hours ahead of us, and had already 
danced with her evening H.  We made our way quietly into her 
room.  Her roommate did not approve of her use of H.  He thought 
he was in love with her, and anytime she brought people through, 
he would flip out and demand everyone leave.  No one ever left, 
but it's always annoying to have some erratic moron screaming 
when you're trying to relax with a nice shot.  Kev gave me my 
first shot, half of a 30$ bag.  It didn't do much for me.  It 
came on right away, but it was more like a tea high than what I 
had expected.  After about 10 minutes I hit the other half of the 
bag, and I flattened out on Kaitlyn's bed unable to move.  The 
next few hours were very trying.  Kev and Kaitlyn are old junky 
friends, and they sit around talking when they fix.  Kev, I found 
out later, isn't much for it, but Kaitlyn never shuts up after 
she fixes so he deals with it.  I laid about on the bed feeling a 
little nauseous, and detached from the situation.  At three AM I 
popped up and walked out the front door with a brief goodbye 
gesture to Kevin and Kaitlyn.  I hopped in my car and headed 
home.  I could feel that I had started something that I wouldn't 
see the end of in the near future.  


***

	I tossed my syringe out into the forest, and brushed the 
pine needles off the seat of my pants.  "Okay, let's get 
rolling."  I popped back into my car and hit I-85 and continued 
north.  My mind wandered again, and my eyes began closing 
involuntarily.  I took a couple of hits off an epinephrine 
inhaler and popped a couple of ephedra pills to liven up.  The 
inhaler did the trick immediately, and the ephedra was back up 
for the long drive ahead.  I wasn't certain why I was headed for 
the District of Columbia.  New York seemed like a much better 
idea, but something was waiting for me in DC, and I couldn't deny 
it.  All through the vacant backdrop of Virginia highway flashes 
of a Bible sliding along lacquered wood slipped in and out of my 
thoughts.  Something was going to happen in DC, I just hope I am 
ready for it.  Then again, are we ever ready?

	Richmond's about thirty miles away.  Time to have a smoke.  

"What's that?
Asshole...I'm in the middle lane.  If you'd like to pass, do 
it...yeah...that's it...the pedal on the right...fuck."  Red and 
blue, the intrusion of those who have such intense personal 
esteem that they consider it normal, or their "duty" to judge 
their fellow man...woman...child...

I make my way over to the highway's shoulder.  I can barely see.  
The flood light-highbeams-red and blue flashing in my mirrors 
like Sunrise Mountain on a crisp clear autumn morn in the middle 
of the fucking desert.  

	"License and registration please."
	Great, he's not much for niceties either.
	When you do eight years in southern California you learn 

the drill.  License...registration...proof of insurance...and 
ALWAYSALWAYSALWAYS...keep both hands on either the steering wheel 
or the dash.  If they lose sight of a hand, you are an open-
season kill my friend, and you're likely to end up slumped over 
your steering wheel on a lonely Virginia highway..."no suspects 
in last night's I-85 murder.  A man from Georgia found dead in 
his 1993 Corolla...the police are investigating.  An anonymous 
witness tipped the cops off to a South American male he allegedly 
saw rummaging through the trunk of the green Corolla minutes 
after the approximated time of death."  Ladies and gentleman, 
that's how it's done.  Descriptions are not subject to 
prosecution.  If the alleged culprit is kept in negative light 
long enough, the case no longer matters, guilty parties, i.e. law 
enforcement, are never mentioned.  That's what happens when you 
give absolute power to a group of human beings.  No suspects, eh?  
Why?
	"That's 'cause the suspect is Cousin Billy.  
	That crazy Georgian hick had it comin'!  
	I'd a' shot 'em too dern it!" 

"Do you know why I pulled you over?"
-penis envy?
-your mother dressed you in leather skirts and flogged you with 
Italian meats?
-the cocaine from the evidence room has worn off and the 
drunkenness has 
returned full-force?
[after all, cops are people too]
-you must meet your quota?
[god forbid if an officer were unable to account for himself 
between the hours of 1AM and 2AM.  "Well, 'ya see, there was this 
hot piece o' ass I used to give a firm rogering to back in high 
school.    I pulled this little bitch in a Jetta going 90, and it 
was her.  I just fucked her in the mouth for ten minutes and 
called it even HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!]

"I believe I was exceeding the speed limit officer."

	Contrary to H.S. Thompson's account of the proper etiquette 
involved in being pulled over by a police officer, I play it real 
cool with the piggly-wiggly's...gets them the fuck out of my life 
as soon as humanly possible.  And this time, I had a gram of H 
and forty grand in the car.  

	"I clocked you doing 78.  Now if you'd have been goin' two 
MPH faster Mr. McNeel, I coulda' hauled your ass in.  That's 
reckless driving in the state of Virginia.  Sit tight, I'll be 
right back..."

	I love it when they walk back to the squad car...the 
strut...the "my mustache has its own gravitational pull" strut.  
You just know they're sitting there praying to the BLUE-GOD in 
the sky that you're sweating.  "Yeah, this kid's scared 
shitless...I still got the touch."  

Fucking morons.  See what happens when guns are GIVEN -ISSUED- to 
police and citizens have to LIECHEATSTEAL to get them?  The 
[negative] balance of power is the fundamental building block of 
authority.  Don't treat us like imbeciles.  Just tell it like it 
is.  Come out and say it.
"We're in charge...now bend over sir...thank you, we'll be done 
in a jiffy."                     [evil grin]

"I need you to step out of the car."
Fuck.  Here we go kids.

	I step out of the car trying not to move in that slow 
pouting way you used to when mom asked you to help her fold the 
laundry.  I follow him to the back of my car, the BLAZING LIGHT 
REDWHITE 12noon in Nevada-heat.  "I wanted to show you Mr. 
McNeel.  I couldn't see what state you were from.  The plate 
holder covers the word Georgia."  Well buddy, I guess the giant 
peach in the center of the plate, and the sticker in the top 
right hand corner of the plate with "GA" printed on it must have 
just served to confuse you.

	"That's terrible, I'll take that off right away officer."
	"So, Mr. McNeel, where are you headed?"
	"I'm not certain Officer Ardis...most likely D.C."
[he was a bit taken aback when I used his name.  Cops try to 
remain anonymous.  Increases fear.]
	"Why D.C.?"
	Now this was unexplainable.  I didn't know why.  I just had 
to go there.  Something was drawing me there that existed outside 
of what I perceive as my-'self'.  "I hear it's easy to find work 
there."
	"What do you do?" he fired back.  
I write...do heroin...steal...evade the police and bill-
collectors...drink excessively...deal in elaborate chemical 
fixes...
	"Office work.  Mostly administration in corporations."
	"I called your tags in, and the database didn't have your 
car registered in Georgia..."
This is what we ALL fear.  I was registered in Georgia 
legitimately...COMPLETELY legitimately.  All of the thousands of 
times I had given false info, ID, tags, ANYthing to the police, 
everything had been fine.  Now that I was playing it straight I 
get thrown a curveball.  "Everything should be in order officer, 
I'm not sure why it would say that."  "Well, sometimes these 
things aren't kept up properly.  Your papers are all in order.  
I'd check on it as soon as possible if I were you though.  Now 
explain to me why you have a California driver's license, Georgia 
plates, and are doing 80 through my state."

	He thinks I stole this car.  There's no doubt about it now.  
I guess that sounds a bit suspect...
	"I moved to Athens, Georgia from Los Angeles.  I registered 
my car right away to avoid a ticket, but I needed my birth 
certificate to get a license and I have as of yet been unable to 
locate it.  And like I said, I am looking for work in D.C..... 
Georgia's not much for employment opportunities..." I almost said 
"all of the businesses drug-test" but I caught myself in time.

"Do you have any weapons or drugs in the car?"
	Fuck.  That's the magic question.  The one I don't want to 
answer.  Weapons...no that's in Lake Hartwell.  I'd be pretty 
fucked if I had that right now, not to mention that it was 
probably fired during whatever happened when I was out cold in 
that Atlanta bathroom.  Drugs.... That's a separate issue...forty 
grand in cash, that's a similar issue.  "No sir."

There, I said it.  

	"Do you have any objections to me looking through your 
automobile?"  OF COURSE I DO!  But a lot of good that does.  Why 
must they always push the issue?

...because they can.  Wouldn't you?  Starting to see what I mean 
about absolute power?  "No.  Not at all, would you like me to 
unlock the rest of the doors for you?"  Sometimes this works as a 
bluff and they just look around with the flashlight and 
leave...but not this jock-strap modeling Cro-Magnon.

	"No, I'll open the doors, please step five feet in front of 
the automobile."
Damndamndamn I hope this guy's as blind as he is dumb.  It isn't 
a light, curious look around.  He opens my suitcase, backpack, 
trunk, glove box, and even takes the floor mats out of my car.  
I'm going to jail.

	He shuts the door, and walks towards me.  I keep an eye on 
his hands.  If he goes for his cuffs, I can still make the tree 
line before he can react.  After that, I'll have to rely on Luck, 
and she's never been a lady to me.  "Okay Mr. McNeel" he begins, 
"I'm going to let you off with a warning this time.  Slow it 
down, if you are stopped in this state again, you are going to 
jail.  I will see to that personally.  Virginia doesn't want 
someone like you around, so keep moving.  Try New York, they 
understand your kind there."

	He's letting me go?  I don't understand.  I'd better jet 
before he changes his mind.  "Oh..." he turns, hand on his 
firearm, "thank you."

	He gets in his car and screeches off.  What the hell just 
happened?  I look through my belongings.  He saw the heroin.  He 
definitely saw the money...everything.  I should be snuggling up 
with a rapist in a cold cell tonight.  Everything was right in 
front of his face...and then I see it.  The bottle of Don 
Perignon, 1990, I've been saving for three years is gone.  
Instead of eight hours of paperwork, processing, and future 
visits to the courthouse during my arraignment, he took the 3000$ 
bottle of champagne.  Interesting.  How can anyone rationalize 
running down, interrupting the life of, and accosting a person in 
the name of upholding the "LAW", and then break every law short 
of murder in the course of one hour on the side of a lonely 
Virginia highway?  Greed, pure and simple.  So much effort put 
forth to stop me from doing all of the lovely things police 
officers are allowed to do.  I'll never understand the logic.  
Police know they have to protect their monopoly on human rights, 
that part I understand, but why do WE keep paying for it?  No one 
should be in authority over ANYone...period.

C'est la vie.  
I get back in my car and continue north...minus my pride and 
3000$ worth of alcoholic ecstasy.