• Following the brick-less road to the man in charge.
• I could smell the menagerie of beige and grey on the facade to my left and right,
• Brick-red metal cubbards clanking from the contents sealed inside from the locks clinging for dear life.
• My footsteps echo like the drug-crazed hormone monster that I was, and Considering the Circumstances, I would not deny it.
• I came to a halt, fascinated by the maze I saw.
• One floor after another in a compact size for convenience. Stairs was it? How could I forget?
• I trotted the peril, legs frightened of what they were awaiting for. Flip-flops tumbling one shoelace at a time. Damn methadrin. Always getting in my eyes.
• "You need any help sir?"
• "Don't come near me, no, no."
• Such a large establishment. Who's to say that I would ever make my way out? That was when I knew that this was not the place for psychedelic drugs.
• My pleasure knew no bounds on my arrival to the witness of another misguided soul in this convoluted maze.Whether be by my aching feet or inebriation, one cannot say.
• I find a somewhat older woman behind a desk, possibly of a haitian origin, dressed in a cape of spanish red.
• I saw her speaking on a fax-mannered phone, gossiping on manners of Pink-Slips and $300 worth of trinkets of a womanly nature.
• "Excuse me madame, were could I find the manager of this here union?"
• She removed her glasses as some sort of obscene gesture "I'm sorry hun, what was that?" This is getting me nowhere. Better keep going.
• "I have a meeting with the Principle, and for that to carry out, I will be needing the directions and the 'I say so'. Do you understand what I'm getting at?"
• "Hmmm…" she pondered "and what, mind you, is your name exactly?"
• "Dutch, Rauz Dutch, Father of Gonzo Journalism here on invite for a social gathering scheduled by my attorney back in Reno. He told me to come here and make contact with a person by the name of T-Man at the source, so like I said, were can I find my way to head office? What's the score here? Hmm? What's the score?"
• No flowers from this Haitian grove, only a gorgon matting of carnivorous plants, a glare of white from her eyes. She was like a Congo River Gorilla, ready to bare her teeth in heat of aggression.
• She placed her glasses back onto her eyes, as if they were the secret of her zen focus, and shuffled through the papers in a karmic manner. This woman was either at peace or was a bitch of different flavors. That I cannot be certain.
• "Hmmm… Mr. Dutch, oh right, you were supposed to meet with the Miss Fraley over an hour ago."
• "Yes, I was detained on route to Nash and Maud. A prehistoric gathering If I say so myself.” So much oil, so much blood, flying car parts of so many shades green and chrome that I could not stop watching.
• She spied a glimpse that would have shot me dead if it could, and pressed a button on the phone to her left, clicking a beep as it did.
• "Mrs. Fraley, your 2:00 is here to speak with you."
• "2:00… alright, better send him in." The small box that spoke back fascinated me. When have we become so reliant on ware of both hard and soft did we wither off in a void of bewilderment?
• "Mrs. Fraley is in the older building, first door to your left."
• I was on the other-side of the looking glass, behind me was a four-story grey concrete maze only found 2-dimensionally on a lithograph surface, one I have just previously trekked, but before me was old. The teenage heart of the 1980's, Bill and Ted have left their mark and left it spotless. Who'd a thunk it.
• As the Haitian instructed, I took my left, and made it safely inside, room lined with posies a' fancy, radiating paint on the walls like Yellow Cake uranium and other juggernauts man was dumb enough to denitrify. How long will it be before my skin burns away with me a melted glob on the carpet?
• "Hello Mr… Dutch, is it?" I nodded a yes. At the end sat a woman anointed in bright magenta work-woman's skirt. I thought she was bald, her blonde hair blend ing in with the background, same to her rosy grinning cheeks to her dress.
• "Why yes, yes it is."
• "It's a pleasure to meet you. I'm Tracie Fraley."
• "Rauz Dutch, thank you for having me."
• "You're very welcome. Would like something to drink?"
• "If you have any alchoffee that would be nice."
• "If we have what now?"
• "Never-mind. So where is old T-Babble? I was notified by my attorney to meet a tall man of a foreign description of such a name for a gathering of some kind. Russian perhaps. Your not him, are you? You don't look Russian.”
• “No I am not him, although Mr. Tyler will be here rather shortly, I just notified him and he’s on his way.”
• “Well then, no time to waste I suppose.”
• Sweating. That was all I knew. One drop of cold perspiration at a time. What a world.
• “Yes, speaking of which, you were supposed to be here to prepare over an hour ago.”
• “A delay was made through a detour in Texarkana when a Nissan 300 killed a pedestrian, so I had to co-operate with traffic and wait.”
• Was there no conversation in this room? Was I truly alone? Or was I talking to myself as I always do?
• “Oh that’s awful… well otherwise, it is a pleasure that you were able to come and present to the school.”
• “The pleasure is mine I’m sure.”
• As the old man in pink before me was dribbling over the fawning and flattery the seminary juggling in it’s mitts, my thoughts were only pertained to the task at hand, but I do wonder, 'How can T-man in a dress run such an empty bureaucracy? How do the blue suited pigs and clanking metal doors pertain to such a sight? Is all this just some crazed narcotized frenzy of some kind, or had I really come to Dallas for an assembly to the deviant masses?
• "Mr. Dutch… Mr Dutch, are you listening?"
• A series of knocks emanated from the door. "Oh God what's that?!" I ducked behind the chair for dear life. "Is it the door?"
• "Come in." The door uncut itself, allowing the guest in with open hinges.
• The Plastic woman paced to the door ajar, high heels clacked like a bohemian hiker along the sidewalk.
• "Oh, Mr. Maverick! So glad you could come, he’s right over there… cowering behind the chair…” glittered with dots and daisies, his optics like beryl blue in a woman's eyes, his hair a possible black, dyed in glowing blond stained with magenta. He wore a pair of itchy grey wool chaps, an unbuttoned black suit jacket, hiding a rather loathsome looking wife-beater, covered in stains of every color of the spectrum.
• "Dutch? Rauz Dutch? Hey, I'm Tyler Maverick, the one who sent the fax last week."
• "You’re not Russian."
• "I have got to say that we are all good fans of your work, particularly myself.”
• I could smell the aftershave adhered on the tax-payer's brow. I think I'm going to like this man, despite my uncertainty of his racial basis. I clung to the hutch for dear life. The giant looked as if he would pull a gun between my glasses at any moment.
• “Well I’m sure he’s as excited as the rest of us. Mr. Dutch, would you please follow Mr. Maverick? He’ll brief you on what will happen over the presentation. 'Where you’ll be, the question’s you’ll be asked and so on.”
• I left from the safety of the cotton seat. Such intolerable vibrations in the area. And now of all things I’m stuck a position that is hard to explain. Hearing gravel in bricks along the wall, fascinated with one another at the stranger faring the tiles beneath his feet.
• The Russian man with his fingers in his pockets, strutted around in a dance reminiscent to music of 70’s heart throb Tom Jones. I began to swerve in sync with him, mesmerized with shock and awe. Where was he taking me? Should I be afraid? Should I pray-tell go where the wind takes me? Or should I take my chances and leap for the nearest window?
• We strutted through the graveled crumbs of our mother-earth and her dry crust, A building of a geometric nature welcomed the two of us in, doors screeching like a foul beast fresh from a cloaca.
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