I held a woman once, who was not mine to hold. She was the friend of a friend who trusted me enough not to get angry when she kissed another girl.
I was not angry. I just wanted to kiss her too.
And I did…
And I held her like I had never expected to. Like I was supposed to.
It may have not meant a goddamn thing to her but I held her. And she held me back and It was good.
I may not even be a blip on her Life’s Radar but it began, for me, a decade of contemplation on the Nature of Lust.
As most of my Faithful Readers know, I hardly ever write, or even talk about SEX, even though SEX has been one of the Defining and All-Powerful aspects of my life.
I have managed to pay my rent, buy my groceries, break a Good woman’s heart, Destroy a church, conceive children, found a Religion, change lives, and kill a vacuum cleaner…All at the end of my SEX…
But yet, as a rule of thumb, I hesitate to discuss my SEXual proclivities in Public. Especially, now that I am older and not nearly the King of All Sluts as I used to be, it just seems Untoward.
If I ever get caught discussing the Sensual Nature of the Pleasures of the Flesh, it is usually through the eyes of a character I have created.
A midget with tendencies toward Sadomasochism, a honeymoon couple, an unfaithful Poetess with emerald green eyes…anything but me.
But this woman was Real. She was no figment of my fertile imagination.
She was solid, tangible, Fleshy, and real.
She would not be denied. Could not be denied, even today…
I am still friends with the friend but have since lost touch with this Woman.
She was not the First nor will she ever be the Last.
She, as all the others, holds a special place in my heart and Mind. They were all Special. Not just special but almost Divine.
In my mind, they have all become One…
One Woman encompassing all. A giant conglomeration of Legs, and Breasts, and Thighs, and Whispers, and Promises, and Kisses, and reaching to Her side of the bed just to make sure She is still there.
Demigoddesses of Lust. Queens of Sensual Depravity. Harbingers of I will Never leave you.
I Worship unconditionally.
Some were Held. Some were Touched. Some were Fucked like depraved animals. Some fell in love until they learned better.
Some stayed for a while. Some ran screaming into the Night.
Some still pray for me…
Some have given up.
I remember them All.
I remember a shower under the stairs, a kiss under the bleachers, a dirty phone call from Your sister, the night we Only touched, and sang and sang and Sang…
I remember her crying when she Came for the first time, and how I cried when I realized We had just made love for the Last. I remember Your squeaky squeals and the way you casually stole my wallet while I basked in the Afterglow.
I remember hay in Grandpa’s barn, sand in Waikiki, and an exquisite park Somewhere in San Francisco where an actress Well over her prime pulled out her teeth…
I remember a man’s shirt over skinny legs, cocaine and carrots, a tool belt and Her husband in the next room.
I remember screaming at your picture on the wall, dancing barefoot in the dewy grass, and the first time She tried to hit me with her car.
I remember fourteen stitches, backstage at the Stones, and the Last time you told me you Loved me.
I remember Making Love to you from afar. Begging for just a brush of your fingertips. The caress of your Breath upon my skin. I remember trembling at the Thought of your attentions.
I remember watching you sleep but I was Only your friend.
I remember all of you…
I do.
I held a woman once, who was not mine to hold.
But I held her.
For a minute.
And she is Now divine…
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
Thursday, February 2, 2012
Sweet Jeebus...Calm Down!
It is amazing to me how many people would rather substitute mass media projections of Truth, for the actual Truth itself. I am saddened and depressed for the next millenia of Humans.
DO NOT BELIEVE EVERYTHING YOU THINK!!!!!
Just because I write so eloquently about Rampant debauchery and violent Deviance and have occasionally dipped my toes into the pool of spiraling Decline, the great Majority of these stories are fiction!
Calm the Fuck down!
No, I do not think, by this time, that it is any secret that my ex-wife Hates me...and Rightfully so.
I do not think that by now that it is any secret that I have wronged my chillens, stolen from convenience stores,cheated on my taxes, badmouthed my venerated Mother, told my daughter that Santa did not exist, cheated on every wife (there have been 4 of them), wrecked cars while drunk, shot a man in anger, OD'd more times than you have been to a National Park, and claim to have seen a UFO, up close!
BUT the Great majority of these stories, are fiction!
Here is a good example, if there ever was one....
The Preceding story, named "Ham on Rye...and whatnot" is actually about a Very legal road race called the Bay Bottom Crawl. It is been raced LEGALLY for over 30 years in Big Pine Key, Florida and my loving wife of over 10 years is now a driver for her very own crew. She works very hard at practice, is a wonderful mother and is a recent college graduate at the age of....(oh, I don't think you are going to trick me into that one!)...21.
My friend, my compadre and partner-in-at-least-a-half-dozen-drug-related crimes, Sally? Actually based on my friend from New England, Alfred. And other than the occasional beer and some shit the doctor(and Judge) makes him take for Compulsive Erections the man doesn't even do drugs. We officiated the race which WAS hot, buggy, and for the vast majority of the time, boring as Hell. I started formulating the story because I WAS bored!
The picture on my blogspot of a fat guy in the road, which looked like the Corvette hit him? That is me! After the one wreck of the day, which happened right in front of Alfred and I, the tow truck came and pulled the Vette out of the tree in which it landed...I thought, after 3(and only 3) beers, about how funny that picture would be, along with the story and my new ending! Alfred took the picture and if you look in the background, one of the pit crew is laughing his ass off at us while the picture is being taken.
And if you were curious and I doubt you were, the driver, Stephen? He is perfectly fine.
EVERY driver of the Real Bay Bottom Crawl is a very earnest driver and would never Dream of imbibing in a buttload of drugs before hitting the track. They take these races seriously and judging by the amount of money I have put out for flame retardant suits this year, also very safe!
Come on, People! Just because I write about a sadistic midget beating his girlfriend and a cannibalistic meth cook, it does not mean that is what actually happened or that I EVEN knew these people! Just because I write about drugs, booze, whores and bacon does not mean I am wrapping whores in Bacon, chewing up my Vicodins and washing them down with Gin while shooting up Heroin in the bathroom stall of a Bus stop in Flagstaff!
Most of the time, my life is pretty boring and mundane...Wash the dishes, write a few pages, play some Playstation, kiss on the Lovely, drink a few beers...big fucking deal!
Every now and then, however....
No,I have never been afraid to explore the Dark Side of Life and yes, I sometimes revel in the dirt, the grime, the Essentially Wrong of the underbelly of the unwashed Masses.
However, I have tried in earnest(and in vain, at times.) to not form a career out of it.
For the biggest part of my life, I tried to BE the fucktards that I write about. My heroes, my enemies, my ex's, my bums, my punk drummers, my junkies, my whores, my killers and even my midgets and My Self...they ALL live in my mind and dance the Slow Dance at the end of my fingertips.
I live precariously through them...
So try and calm the fuck down!
THESE STORIES ARE, AT THE LEAST, 40% FICTION!
So can everyone just calm down?
This webpage is not about You and I...It is not about Right and Wrong...It is not even about Me...
It is about the Story!
The everlasting gobstopper, the Eternal, the Primal, the One story that we have all been telling since the dawn of Man.
We All tell it, either through words, or music, or our Work, or our Art, our Faith
or lack of Faith.
We are All telling this story...I will promise to respect yours even if you will not respect mine.
DO NOT BELIEVE EVERYTHING YOU THINK!!!!!
Just because I write so eloquently about Rampant debauchery and violent Deviance and have occasionally dipped my toes into the pool of spiraling Decline, the great Majority of these stories are fiction!
Calm the Fuck down!
No, I do not think, by this time, that it is any secret that my ex-wife Hates me...and Rightfully so.
I do not think that by now that it is any secret that I have wronged my chillens, stolen from convenience stores,cheated on my taxes, badmouthed my venerated Mother, told my daughter that Santa did not exist, cheated on every wife (there have been 4 of them), wrecked cars while drunk, shot a man in anger, OD'd more times than you have been to a National Park, and claim to have seen a UFO, up close!
BUT the Great majority of these stories, are fiction!
Here is a good example, if there ever was one....
The Preceding story, named "Ham on Rye...and whatnot" is actually about a Very legal road race called the Bay Bottom Crawl. It is been raced LEGALLY for over 30 years in Big Pine Key, Florida and my loving wife of over 10 years is now a driver for her very own crew. She works very hard at practice, is a wonderful mother and is a recent college graduate at the age of....(oh, I don't think you are going to trick me into that one!)...21.
My friend, my compadre and partner-in-at-least-a-half-dozen-drug-related crimes, Sally? Actually based on my friend from New England, Alfred. And other than the occasional beer and some shit the doctor(and Judge) makes him take for Compulsive Erections the man doesn't even do drugs. We officiated the race which WAS hot, buggy, and for the vast majority of the time, boring as Hell. I started formulating the story because I WAS bored!
The picture on my blogspot of a fat guy in the road, which looked like the Corvette hit him? That is me! After the one wreck of the day, which happened right in front of Alfred and I, the tow truck came and pulled the Vette out of the tree in which it landed...I thought, after 3(and only 3) beers, about how funny that picture would be, along with the story and my new ending! Alfred took the picture and if you look in the background, one of the pit crew is laughing his ass off at us while the picture is being taken.
And if you were curious and I doubt you were, the driver, Stephen? He is perfectly fine.
EVERY driver of the Real Bay Bottom Crawl is a very earnest driver and would never Dream of imbibing in a buttload of drugs before hitting the track. They take these races seriously and judging by the amount of money I have put out for flame retardant suits this year, also very safe!
Come on, People! Just because I write about a sadistic midget beating his girlfriend and a cannibalistic meth cook, it does not mean that is what actually happened or that I EVEN knew these people! Just because I write about drugs, booze, whores and bacon does not mean I am wrapping whores in Bacon, chewing up my Vicodins and washing them down with Gin while shooting up Heroin in the bathroom stall of a Bus stop in Flagstaff!
Most of the time, my life is pretty boring and mundane...Wash the dishes, write a few pages, play some Playstation, kiss on the Lovely, drink a few beers...big fucking deal!
Every now and then, however....
No,I have never been afraid to explore the Dark Side of Life and yes, I sometimes revel in the dirt, the grime, the Essentially Wrong of the underbelly of the unwashed Masses.
However, I have tried in earnest(and in vain, at times.) to not form a career out of it.
For the biggest part of my life, I tried to BE the fucktards that I write about. My heroes, my enemies, my ex's, my bums, my punk drummers, my junkies, my whores, my killers and even my midgets and My Self...they ALL live in my mind and dance the Slow Dance at the end of my fingertips.
I live precariously through them...
So try and calm the fuck down!
THESE STORIES ARE, AT THE LEAST, 40% FICTION!
So can everyone just calm down?
This webpage is not about You and I...It is not about Right and Wrong...It is not even about Me...
It is about the Story!
The everlasting gobstopper, the Eternal, the Primal, the One story that we have all been telling since the dawn of Man.
We All tell it, either through words, or music, or our Work, or our Art, our Faith
or lack of Faith.
We are All telling this story...I will promise to respect yours even if you will not respect mine.
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
Ham on Rye and a Corvette Death...Pt One
The bar stunk of Death and stale beer and Gospel Blues and the girl with the hibiscus hair said Hello over the top of her Gin and tonic. I smiled at her but told her to stop wasting her time. I do not Sleep with women with tonic on their breath. She told me to Fuck off. I don't blame her. I am Damaged and will Sleep with anyone. She saw that in my eyes and was appropriately insulted. I do Not care.
I am Damaged and an Asshole and that is all there is too It.
The bar still stank of Angry hibiscus and stale Death and praises to a god I no longer believe in when Sally puts his hand on my shoulder and tells me about The Race. Sally is a new Friend and nuerotically Damaged and a Good Guy. He talks too much and has panic attacks but is always ready for irresposible Weirdness when the occasion calls for it.
The Race, he explained, was an illegal road course set up in the Wild back roads around Miami near the Glades and far removed from the prying eyes of the Man. Suped-up Hoopties and over-sexed sports cars would be Screaming around coned tracks set up on the one and a half lane, barely paved serpentines winding through the mangrove marshes between the Indian casino and Nowhere Special. The Grand prize was 100,000 dollars and a sponsorship from, one can only assume, an auto parts concern or Hooters. There would be Drinking and hookers and Danger and possible death by dismemberment.
__________________________
Like a moth to a Flame....
____________________________________________
Stops for gin and to cash a Bad check notwithstanding, we made pretty good time. Along the Tamiami Trail, Sally fell asleep. Just as well. I had Lyle Lovett on the stereo and a fat joint crunched between my teeth as I barrelled along the flat stretch of humid Nothingness and imagined myself in a race. A race that I was finally winning. A race that could not be lost or Squandered carelessly. My foot jammed nearly through the floorboard, singing Bad karaoke about a pony on a boat, and smoking that shit, I raced no one. The fetid swamp on either side whipping past with hardly a Whisper, the black shapes of Nightmares fading as quickly as Hope and youth and it was Good.
Somewhere near Shark Valley we broke out the Gin...
_________________________________________________________
Gin is Baptism and god and everything right with the world.
Gin is a reason.
Gin makes me happy.
When Sally brought out the green bottle of Tanqueray, I smiled a crooked smile and backed my foot off the gas pedal. We were almost There and too fast and Sally looked frightened as a bunny. I pulled over gravel quick within sight of two Fat alligators and an egret on lunch break. I poured a Huge wash down my throat, letting the botanicals burn away my Sins and remind me that we were on a Mission. Sally lit two cigarettes and handed me one. He is a Good guy.
Some Saturdays just lend themselves to the gods of Gin, manic driving, and gashes in the fabric of the cultural Norm. This particular Saturday afternoon, as it turns out, was one of Them. I knew we were in Trouble when Sally insisted upon getting close enough to the Largest of the two gators to piss on its head. I completely understood the Temptation. It is quite the Manly Thing To Do. With the second shot of booze already coursing in the general direction of my ears, I watched helplessly giggling as Sally whipped It out, pinched the head of It and try to spray the Sleepy beast in the eyes from a distance of about nine feet.
The funniest part about watching your Good friend being chased by a pissed-off, pissed-on alligator is that there is absolutely Nothing funny about it. It is terrifying and crashing and wet and Loud.
Shaking and soaked to the bone, fly undone, laughing, Sally returns to the car and grabs the Gin from me. I have never seen a man drink so long from the neck of a bottle. It was beautiful to watch. Complete Abandon. Like cake to a Fat kid. Like sweat on a Preacher. Like rubber to road...
_____________________________________________________________
There is some shit you just Do Not do.
Marry a thick Blond with pink toenails and a drug habit. Snort aspirin. Drop acid at a Pentacostal revival. Laugh at a friend's Cancer diagnosis. Have sex with the widow AT the funeral. Piss on an Alligator. Show up Gin drunk for a High speed clandestine road Race and offer to officiate Turn 3.
They said Yes.
While waiting for transport to our station, we wandered aimlessly through the pit area and the starting line. Porsche, Lamborghini, Lexxus, BMW, Lotus, and Corvette were represented, as well as a few Ghetto-mean VW's thrown in with sullen moods and bubbletops. A gaggle of drivers and mechanics encircled a glass topped patio table astrewn with the accoutrement of the Seriously Deranged. Empty bottles of scotch, half empty paper cups of Colada and Massive lines of crushed Oxycontins mixed with SoFlo cocaine. The drugs were bad enough,jesus, but the Colada, high-powered Cuban coffee strained, Presumably, between the legs of Blessed Virgins and whores, was just damned irresponsible!
Sally, affable Gentleman that he is, introduced Us to this caffeine and painkiller addled bunch of adrenaline junkies as Helpful Volunteers and Race Fans. One of the Race organizers saw us eyeing the table and drooling like pedophiles at a playground.
"Help yourselves, boys. Just remember to keep your eyes open out there in Turn 3. Its a bad one and we wouldn't want Ya'll to get Hurt. Its easy to do out here."
Face buried in Illegal substances and Scotch, we offer our assurances that we are Professionals when it comes to mind-altering chemicals and we would rather Die than see anyone get Hurt.
"Well, just don't turn your backs to oncoming cars. You should be fine."
Mosquitos swarmed the site where we were unceremoniously deposited with a walkie talkie,a flag, a fire extinguisher and two sheets of paper. One with the Rules printed upon it, and the other slathered with the itinerary of the weekend.
1pm tech inspection and hot track
2pm lemons and hoopties division
3pm smoke joint with large woman
4pm hear the monster in the swamp
5pm sports and muscle division
712 huge wreck involving tiny rutting deer, a little red corvette, a poetry reading by a dead man, and lethal doses of a bug spray that may or not be legal in this country.
8pm end of race
9pm pitch nylon tent behind car
905pm contract dengue fever
10pm uncomfortable banquet hosted by the devil and anthony bourdain.
1130 be escorted to the door of the overpriced neo-cajun restaurant and asked to politely fuck off.
It all seemed pretty straightforward...
We were to stand in the Painful arch of Turn 3 with a red flag and a fire extinguisher and the mosquitos and watch the track for Obstructions of dubious Nature, radio HQ when track was clear. The rest of the gig consisted of resetting the rubber-scuffed orange cones whenever the drivers knocked them over in their Desperate clawings through the Slalom directly before the Hairpin that Turn 3 wrapped around laughingly.
__________________________________________
Corruption and South Florida lie around like Old lovers in comfortable shoes, bolstering and consuming at the same time. It is a way of life. Like subtle Racism and cornbread, corruption is just an accepted thread in the fabric of daily existence. So with the backdrop of Little Milton playing in my head and gin soaked flying bloodsuckers buzzing in my ears, I did not even flinch when I saw the Sheriff's car roll around the hairpin, going the wrong way on the track. The race had not begun yet and there was no danger of a head-on collision but I red flagged him all the same.
A Grizzly bear in a pressed brown uniform rolled down the passenger window.
"How you boys doin' this fine afternoon?"
"Good, and you, Sheriff?"
"Oh, just fine. Say, you boys do know that this race is for Members Only, dontcha?" He smiled yellow and sanguine and knowing.
"We are not racers, Sheriff. We are only working the track today.
"Doesn't matter, fella. Still gotta collect your membership dues. It's the rules."
After a brief interaction involving our cash and the Sheriff's huge paw, he was gone, leaving nothing but a bad taste in our mouth for authority figures and half of a can of DEET bug spray with a faulty nozzle.
We were now Members of an exclusive club.
I am Damaged and an Asshole and that is all there is too It.
The bar still stank of Angry hibiscus and stale Death and praises to a god I no longer believe in when Sally puts his hand on my shoulder and tells me about The Race. Sally is a new Friend and nuerotically Damaged and a Good Guy. He talks too much and has panic attacks but is always ready for irresposible Weirdness when the occasion calls for it.
The Race, he explained, was an illegal road course set up in the Wild back roads around Miami near the Glades and far removed from the prying eyes of the Man. Suped-up Hoopties and over-sexed sports cars would be Screaming around coned tracks set up on the one and a half lane, barely paved serpentines winding through the mangrove marshes between the Indian casino and Nowhere Special. The Grand prize was 100,000 dollars and a sponsorship from, one can only assume, an auto parts concern or Hooters. There would be Drinking and hookers and Danger and possible death by dismemberment.
__________________________
Like a moth to a Flame....
____________________________________________
Stops for gin and to cash a Bad check notwithstanding, we made pretty good time. Along the Tamiami Trail, Sally fell asleep. Just as well. I had Lyle Lovett on the stereo and a fat joint crunched between my teeth as I barrelled along the flat stretch of humid Nothingness and imagined myself in a race. A race that I was finally winning. A race that could not be lost or Squandered carelessly. My foot jammed nearly through the floorboard, singing Bad karaoke about a pony on a boat, and smoking that shit, I raced no one. The fetid swamp on either side whipping past with hardly a Whisper, the black shapes of Nightmares fading as quickly as Hope and youth and it was Good.
Somewhere near Shark Valley we broke out the Gin...
_________________________________________________________
Gin is Baptism and god and everything right with the world.
Gin is a reason.
Gin makes me happy.
When Sally brought out the green bottle of Tanqueray, I smiled a crooked smile and backed my foot off the gas pedal. We were almost There and too fast and Sally looked frightened as a bunny. I pulled over gravel quick within sight of two Fat alligators and an egret on lunch break. I poured a Huge wash down my throat, letting the botanicals burn away my Sins and remind me that we were on a Mission. Sally lit two cigarettes and handed me one. He is a Good guy.
Some Saturdays just lend themselves to the gods of Gin, manic driving, and gashes in the fabric of the cultural Norm. This particular Saturday afternoon, as it turns out, was one of Them. I knew we were in Trouble when Sally insisted upon getting close enough to the Largest of the two gators to piss on its head. I completely understood the Temptation. It is quite the Manly Thing To Do. With the second shot of booze already coursing in the general direction of my ears, I watched helplessly giggling as Sally whipped It out, pinched the head of It and try to spray the Sleepy beast in the eyes from a distance of about nine feet.
The funniest part about watching your Good friend being chased by a pissed-off, pissed-on alligator is that there is absolutely Nothing funny about it. It is terrifying and crashing and wet and Loud.
Shaking and soaked to the bone, fly undone, laughing, Sally returns to the car and grabs the Gin from me. I have never seen a man drink so long from the neck of a bottle. It was beautiful to watch. Complete Abandon. Like cake to a Fat kid. Like sweat on a Preacher. Like rubber to road...
_____________________________________________________________
There is some shit you just Do Not do.
Marry a thick Blond with pink toenails and a drug habit. Snort aspirin. Drop acid at a Pentacostal revival. Laugh at a friend's Cancer diagnosis. Have sex with the widow AT the funeral. Piss on an Alligator. Show up Gin drunk for a High speed clandestine road Race and offer to officiate Turn 3.
They said Yes.
While waiting for transport to our station, we wandered aimlessly through the pit area and the starting line. Porsche, Lamborghini, Lexxus, BMW, Lotus, and Corvette were represented, as well as a few Ghetto-mean VW's thrown in with sullen moods and bubbletops. A gaggle of drivers and mechanics encircled a glass topped patio table astrewn with the accoutrement of the Seriously Deranged. Empty bottles of scotch, half empty paper cups of Colada and Massive lines of crushed Oxycontins mixed with SoFlo cocaine. The drugs were bad enough,jesus, but the Colada, high-powered Cuban coffee strained, Presumably, between the legs of Blessed Virgins and whores, was just damned irresponsible!
Sally, affable Gentleman that he is, introduced Us to this caffeine and painkiller addled bunch of adrenaline junkies as Helpful Volunteers and Race Fans. One of the Race organizers saw us eyeing the table and drooling like pedophiles at a playground.
"Help yourselves, boys. Just remember to keep your eyes open out there in Turn 3. Its a bad one and we wouldn't want Ya'll to get Hurt. Its easy to do out here."
Face buried in Illegal substances and Scotch, we offer our assurances that we are Professionals when it comes to mind-altering chemicals and we would rather Die than see anyone get Hurt.
"Well, just don't turn your backs to oncoming cars. You should be fine."
Mosquitos swarmed the site where we were unceremoniously deposited with a walkie talkie,a flag, a fire extinguisher and two sheets of paper. One with the Rules printed upon it, and the other slathered with the itinerary of the weekend.
1pm tech inspection and hot track
2pm lemons and hoopties division
3pm smoke joint with large woman
4pm hear the monster in the swamp
5pm sports and muscle division
712 huge wreck involving tiny rutting deer, a little red corvette, a poetry reading by a dead man, and lethal doses of a bug spray that may or not be legal in this country.
8pm end of race
9pm pitch nylon tent behind car
905pm contract dengue fever
10pm uncomfortable banquet hosted by the devil and anthony bourdain.
1130 be escorted to the door of the overpriced neo-cajun restaurant and asked to politely fuck off.
It all seemed pretty straightforward...
We were to stand in the Painful arch of Turn 3 with a red flag and a fire extinguisher and the mosquitos and watch the track for Obstructions of dubious Nature, radio HQ when track was clear. The rest of the gig consisted of resetting the rubber-scuffed orange cones whenever the drivers knocked them over in their Desperate clawings through the Slalom directly before the Hairpin that Turn 3 wrapped around laughingly.
__________________________________________
Corruption and South Florida lie around like Old lovers in comfortable shoes, bolstering and consuming at the same time. It is a way of life. Like subtle Racism and cornbread, corruption is just an accepted thread in the fabric of daily existence. So with the backdrop of Little Milton playing in my head and gin soaked flying bloodsuckers buzzing in my ears, I did not even flinch when I saw the Sheriff's car roll around the hairpin, going the wrong way on the track. The race had not begun yet and there was no danger of a head-on collision but I red flagged him all the same.
A Grizzly bear in a pressed brown uniform rolled down the passenger window.
"How you boys doin' this fine afternoon?"
"Good, and you, Sheriff?"
"Oh, just fine. Say, you boys do know that this race is for Members Only, dontcha?" He smiled yellow and sanguine and knowing.
"We are not racers, Sheriff. We are only working the track today.
"Doesn't matter, fella. Still gotta collect your membership dues. It's the rules."
After a brief interaction involving our cash and the Sheriff's huge paw, he was gone, leaving nothing but a bad taste in our mouth for authority figures and half of a can of DEET bug spray with a faulty nozzle.
We were now Members of an exclusive club.
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