• He led me inside, seats and lights filed in an organized motley. A stage of wood and a curtain of fine red leather that clung to the ceiling like hooks to a bistro.
• Maverick strutted in folk-whimsy, explaining the nature of the theatre. He tells me how this is the place where those who have blown all his options can't afford the luxury of changing his ways come to Q&A the wishes of their devotee's. The lobby was labeled as "the Mat". He told me this was an abbreviation to the name of the forge, but I don't believe him. Who was this Mat? Where is he?
• Back behind the stage was were I met a man dressed to his ankles in deep Navy Blue, shoes reflecting in shining sienna. His head showed signs of molting in the middle, shedding for the coming summer heat. Mr. Bain was his name. His game I have yet to descifer.
• "So Amir--"
• "Mmhm."
• "And Mrs. Villa--"
• "Yes."
• "Will ask you the questions on the list--"
• "Yeh."
• "Do you know how your gonna answer them?"
• "Of course"
• "So remember to keep the answers consistent and not draw them out for to long. This assembly only goes for about an hour."
• "Mhmm." Time here in the coterie of this gentleman was like living in the presence of a modern American man yelling at his mother's urn. You wouldn't know what to say or respond at such an action. A reason I am sure, but for what reason?
• "…Are you even listening?"
• "Hhmm." With your everyday pedestrian, in a situation where you annoy the individual within the same bubble as yourself, one would seem to babble and repeat the words your questioneer would ask. This is how it goes wrong. To escape the moment with your hands clean, you merely need to fake it.
• "So what did I just say?"
• "Uhh…" I could not explain the terror I felt. It was like being in the presence of one yelling at his mother's urn.
• He sighed.
• "Never-mind, you'll remember when you hear it.
(45 minutes later)
• An ocean of juveniles flooded into the carpeted stadium. Many machines of a handheld purpose blinked and radiated into the center of their misguided attention.
• I hid with suspicion, praying to god that the nightmare would wait for a little longer for me to breath in the sawdust back stage-right.
• “Hello Booker T. Washington Students. It is my pleasure to present a man that has won much praise from both the faculty and your fellow students. Thanks to the combined efforts of Scott Davison’s Creative Writing Group and his college in the Dallas Morning News, Tyler Maverick.”
• I spied through the red velvet, eyeless at the searing lights the equipment ignited.
• “He is known all across America for his works in literature and autobiography, which has earned him the title ‘the Father of Gonzo Journalism’. Please help me in welcome Mr. Rauz L. Dutch.”
• Vague gestures of the hands soared in motion across the theatre, screams in empty excitement roaming the seats in a tizzy.
• The crowd fed the delirium as my face was shown to the world. Will their fun be undone when I mention there own home's tie-in to Kennedy?
• Bad vibes of paranoia, madness, fear and loathing, revulsion and terror were reverberating off the walls.
• I was cascaded in a romp into the chair prepared for my visit. There beside me were the faces I have learned on my adventure.
• The Russian seated to my left, slouching to correct the lower vertebrae.
• The Woman settled in Pink at the mantle, cheeks blistered red from the tension of her unhealthy smile.
• It would have taken me extreme physical force to take me off the stage, but such a thing cannot happen.
• A Latino pair of Loral and Hardy to my right, smiling as their jaws clicked and moaned in the form of what the modern American would call a sentence.
• If only I could remember. Ambience of revolt and comedy filled there glasses, and in the end, that there all truly is. The good the bad and the consequences.
• I was just another addict off the aftermath. They loved me in Reno as they do now. I took another glance at my droning public, my brain shriveled up and fresh from the fryer. The last drop of tequila coursing through me burnt out its welcome, as the DT spasms began to take effect onto my bronchia. I felt like the monstrous incarnation of Ben Stein. .. A man out of touch with human interest, his place on this fruitful earth, and complacent all the same. Straight into frantic oblivion: hazards, obscurities, a freak on all fronts. My name is Rauz Dutch.
• Thank You and good night
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