No 'I' in Gonzo

Work*ng Vacat*on Star*ng Charley Knox

Between the ego cleanse and flame-fueled loan shark duel, he evolved Charly to a scary goon; he was off to earn the fury of career devoutness back. ‘He looked worse after the gap months; what happened?’ Landed before The Great Party story pre-jotted on the plane. Pre-rummed for the crawls; the boss won’t have a clue except for the coach seat long tab. At a bar to breathe the scene, locals celebrate and feel all the same, enthused by the future change of atmosphere. ‘Who’s that—Oops! Sorry man. Excuse my flawed culture.’ Spotted her eyes on the gruff above the Wally-World floral button-up. Toast to her acknowledgment regardless of the pounds of dreads. However, the drunk level took some thought because the stool next door earned a guest no knock and jumped to the handshake before the name. Two more rums from the cheeky barkeep, they converse, unknowable plans fly to meet the day of. He doesn’t care for auras except hers reads as a fresh copy of the Book of the Dead. ‘Oh well, good talk and good luck.

Camera-ready as speakers, pop stars warm up, rowdy creatures for once a year, escape the dark. By the new moon, baby boozers are already wobbly; the food vendors are known to gyrate on beat all week long and never drop a plate. He’ll confess to the gonzo story spawned by rums near feathery garments that can’t hold voluptuous curves for much longer. ‘Gulp.’ San Jaun rumbles the arts and crafts he pockets to stand mask. Handed holy words from a clergy leader fresh from lint face deep motor boated as they led the flock. What a clergy. Governor can’t be bothered before or after the greet and speech. A request before to show the band some love as they take the stage to show Charley more than what he would ask. From stage to parade, the recorder full of nonsense between the personal notes and samba on the groves. End of the day, one returns from the bar to shuffle Charley off. ‘Let go of me.’

Over cloaked for the weather and needs to talk about her endeavor. No story that lacks her type of treasure hunt that can sell the planned puff—shhh, don’t look toward them. ‘Who even are you!’ Never an answer there, so we’re shuffled off somewhere on a low boat to plant a tale on Charley’s recorder that he pre-stumbled through a day ago. Barely remembers who she means, but the wasted glass of rum on some randos pants is on the mark. Charley had soaked the map of so-called great repute she absorbed then destroyed. He provoked a hornet’s nest at the crest of her homeland’s downward gyre. The save earned Charley a favor that she wanted to morph to another. ‘How do you make that math work?’ “Congrats, you’re a death sentence dodger—can’t story here much longer, half the reward, and what a story; well?”

Charley’s party ends for a drunken foot chase through a small town. ‘let’s blame the collateral damage on the rebel forces type perusers, yeah?’ Relentless for covert future rulers as she gets help from all the locals. Charley would rather have a workaround as huts collapse under merc boots as cops are nowhere to be found, some walls dastardly deconstructed by masked pals turn home warmers to roommates. She leads Charley to a jungle on a path dark enough to be nowhere. Refers to the map and her people on the lam. ‘No Uncle Sam?’ No, but teaches a black spell a two to make the DAS Amulet glow near you. What the hell does that mean, wouldn’t cover the gypsy’s day-to-day, but the effort spent for the retreat put them at the cavern’s beck and call.

A note Charley couldn’t grasp—a language she spoke as her eyes rolled. Read from her frontal lobe how to spread bad luck to her unwanted followers. ‘Me—and no touch…’ Too late not to call the tale a wash, and now he hated how hard she dragged knuckle-crackly by the hand. Some treasure hunter that sees the gleam beyond the museum glory—‘Who are they?’ Wears antlers to ward the foes, dances that co-op the realms around a hexagonal, coal-stack cauldron—lots of straps and fresh blood amongst the loose earth beneath unbound feet. Could be showered from the overhead hecatomb. Whatever aura that came from the pot had taste testers. ‘how’d they make me one?’ between the chants and her freak Mol Tov breaths to express sacramental glee. Then the screams— ‘That wasn’t but should’ve been me?!’

Naked governor on the menu? The stake to be roped and hung from the camp staple. Handed the green coated blade, your fate next to that sweaty palms, she calms— ‘That’s a fresh red rum, from where—shouldn’t want that on the tongue—how many have been taken back!’ ‘shh,’ Should’ve asked before the Orarand Ceremony. Lunacy ensues, shouts the ungagged governor to speak the last hooray. Dullard’s blur plagued Charley’s awareness of the steps of those Ded Moone must dos. He thought those were vengeful thorns on the attack from the brushes—She only confessed her drawn marks to be creature-repellant, not shock and awe. Now, the last queue to awaken the Amarelo Seether Hawkshaw— ‘Hell Nah!’

But each taste had worn down the rebel regret, claw marks present where they can’t be seen, yet the blur hosted the feet to move. A majesty of a drunk ballet dancer on a Daytona rave crawl, round and round faster and faster, a part of a culty sect. Charley never felt the act, just caught the aftermath that recorded the flames red. Woke alone, Charley’s West Borough Press comped hotel room was torn apart, recorder was on the table under the desk lamp. The playback spells the reason for the ‘Thanks lover’ on the front of the Cancer Free Hallmark card. ‘Oh, what an empty tape to check. At least there are—ONE DAY LEFT!’ Dreams can’t compare to whatever the hell a doctor could call that. But along the singed edges and drops of blood—"SHIT!!"