Liquid terp. Bennie rolls. 180-proof mescal. Diseased worms afloat in the brew.
They pulled into an alley and fortified. It juked their resolve. They jammed the knucks and saps in their waistbands. They ate two worms apiece.
Elmer said, “He’s in T.J., if he’s anywhere.”
Buzz said, “He’ll have some Statie watchdog. Dud won’t let him go around unchaperoned.”
Elmer said, “We’ve got to get him alone.”
Buzz said, “You can chaperone me. Them worms got me seeing double and thinking evil thoughts.”
T.J. by nite. It’s this fucked-up phantasm. White man, beware. Hock your souls at your own risk.
They ditched the sled behind a church and paid two nuns to guard it. They scoured on foot. Buzz packed the flash roll. It was all yanqui five-spots. Elmer packed pidgin Spanish and bilingual savoir faire. They bopped loose and orbed for Hugh C.
Huey was a notable pervdog. He sniffed cocaine and model-airplane glue. He boffed boys and butch dykes like his mama. He was a Fifth Column shitheel and smut-film connosewer. T.J. offered all such deelites.
They scoured accordingly. They hit farmacias and flashed Huey mug shots. You see this fucker? He buy dope from you? No, señor — he don’t.
The sky melted. The sidewalks weaved. Terp and mescal supplied the effect. The bennies supplied bounce. The terp supplied grip. The mescal sent sparks off their footsteps. Elmer saw his dead redneck kin in with all the nite-hopping spics.
They braced cat-meat taco vendors. They braced sailors down from Dago. They logged nada and no. They braced male prosties in Roman breastplates and padded jockstraps. They got ditto and nix. They hit the noxious nitespots next.
The Chicago Club. The Blue Fox. The Red Cat. Donkey dives. Cunnilingus caves. Fellatio fiefdoms. Cocktail bars with built-in piss troughs. All-nude stage acts. Connie Lingus and her Cunt Corsairs. Some Cuban coon with a two-foot dick. Dig: he table-hops and dunks it in your drink!!!
They flashed Huey mug shots. Buzz dispensed five-spots. Elmer logged ¿Que? and Huh? They weaved outside and over to Klub Falangisto. The motif celebrated boss man Franco. The walls featured atrocity shots from Guernica and Bilbao. Mex girls danced nude on tabletops. Marines match-singed their snatch hair and made them hop-hop.
Elmer and Buzz table-hopped. Buzz flashed the mug shots. Elmer gagged on burned-hair fumes. They got no, no, no, and one yes.
A fat corporal pointed upstairs. He said there’s a camera club. He saw that Huey guy there. Look for a bare-chested Mex. He wears chaps. He’s got bad acne. Huey keestered him while some slumming Shriners snapped pix.
Elmer and Buzz weaved over to a freight lift. An old guy in Sinarquista garb operated it. Buzz whipped a fivesky on him. The old guy ran them up. The doors slid open. They saw this:
One jumbo room. Blasting flashbulbs and wall-to-wall bedrolls. Ten thousand penetrations. Disembodied dicks and holes. Camera fiends jumping bedroll-to-bedroll. More flashbulb blips. “In The Mood” blasting from wall vents. Ten thousand fuck shrieks.
Elmer just stood there. Flashbulb pops made him see quintuple. He saw five of everything. He thought he saw a guy in chaps. Buzz ran toward him or it.
He stumbled over bedrolls and kicked fuckers and fuckees elsewhere. He dumped camera fiends and sent cameras airborne. Elmer saw it all quintuple and lost it just as quick. He popped sweat. He almost lost his legs and his lunch. He shut his eyes and felt himself grabbed.
Buzz screamed upside his face. Elmer heard gibberish and “We got us a lead!”
Here’s the drift:
The Mex in chaps turned tricks with El Huey. He poked Huey last night. Huey stole his trick stash. Huey’s got a Statie bodyguard. His name’s Juan. He goes Greek, too. Huey ex-capes from Juan and spawns trouble. Huey’s HQ is the Klubb Satan. It’s due east of T.J. He’s bunked in at El Kasa 69. It’s close by.
The boys are back in—
They scrammed. They retrieved Elmer’s sled and tore eastbound. Buzz drove. Elmer mixed terp-and-bennie cocktails. Buzz made a purchase en route.
A roadside vendor sold scorpions in small cages. One sting and you’re dead. They ate bugs and made dandy pets.
El Scorpio snoozed in his cage. Elmer prepped a kidnap kit. It featured one stuffed-sock muzzle/two brass-knuck persuaders/one come-along chain.
They tore east. They hit dirt roads and scrub hills. They topped a rise and caught this red neon blaze.
Buzz pulled up to it. There’s Klubb Satan. It’s perched on a packed-dirt flat.
The red blaze was El Diablo. He was two feet high. His dick was fifteen feet long. Said dick blinked, on and off. Note the pulsing pitchfork head.
The building was all cinder block. Sandbags formed the foundation. Locals porked in parked jalopies. Transaxles banged the dirt.
Buzz parked snout-out. Let’s be prudent here. Let’s boogie and ex-cape quick.
Elmer winked at Buzz. El Buzzo winked back. They slurped some mescal. Elmer noshed a toxic worm. They got out and stretched their legs. They hit the Klubb two abreast.
Loud noise/barnyard stink/tethered donkeys onstage. Wraparound booths and a strolling trio. They crooned into microphones. A Mex castrato warbled this:
“I’ve got a girl, her name’s Roseanne, she uses a tortilla for a diaphragm!!!”
Elmer clocked the room. He went eyes left. Buzz clocked eyes right. Elmer clock-snared Huey — right there at ten o’clock high.
He’s in this big booth. He’s biting some boy’s neck. Pervdog Huey. The boy was twelve, tops.
Buzz clocked left and caught it. He nudged Elmer. They slid on their knucks and threaded on over. They came off overt and covert.
They bopped up behind the booth. Buzz grabbed a fistful of Huey’s hair and plain pulled. Huey flew up and out. He flailed his legs and shrieked soprano. His kiddie paramour shrieked. Elmer kicked Huey in the balls and stuffed a sock in his mouth. A big ruckus materialized.
Satanites craned their necks and peered over. They jumped up and out of their booths. They went ¿Qué? and ¡Madre mio! Buzz pulled his piece and popped two shots at the ceiling. The donkeys strained at their tethers and brayed.
Elmer slammed a knuck shot. Huey’s rib cage deflated. Buzz regripped Huey’s hair and plain dragged him. Elmer ran up on the stage and untied the donkeys. They jumped off the stage and did some goooood Satanite trampling. Elmer pulled his piece and popped two shots at the ceiling. Buzz dragged Huey to the door and kicked it open.
The donkeys capsized tables and hoof-stomped revelers. Ten thousand Satanites screamed. The donkeys made for the door. Elmer held it open. The furry fuckers ex-caped into the night.
El Kasa 69 was out in the boonies. It was perched behind some hills and tucked out of sight. Buzz rifled Huey’s pockets and plucked his room key. Elmer stashed his car in a scrub grove. He walked back to the room. Buzz had Huey double-cuffed.
El Kasa was a hot-sheet hellhole. Tar-paper huts. Rafter rats. Mismatched wood-plank walls. Huey’s room was a pus pit. Piss troughs and one bare mattress. Huey restrained thereupon.
He wore a Luftwaffe jumpsuit. He was wrist- and ankle-cuffed. He’d drooled up the sock in his mouth. Buzz dangled El Scorpio upside his head.
El Buggo malo y feo. He poked at his cage bars and issued evil intent. Huey fright-eyed him. He pissed his pants. The lap lake spread.