Gotta keep my head down. They all want to talk to me but I have to go to sleep because fuck I’ll be singing to the whole city in something like ten hours. If I look up they’ll all catch my eye and recognize that oh man they’re walking on the same Strip as Sammy Lane and they’ll wanna know what I put in my hair and what I pour down my throat and would I please fuck their wives and sign their handkerchiefs. They wanna get to me but remember what Deacon said, he said if I let ’em get to me they’ll drag me down to their level and then I’m not me I’m just their Tuesday night. Vultures.

It’s not like I get this drunk every night it’s just that I was taking a bath and had a think about how I never go out it’s just workworkwork and why not call Deacon and go to some other casino and talk to pretty girls because man if there’s one thing that I really flip over it’s pretty girls. But they don’t look like they did. I liked them a lot better then, they had short hair and calico dress and were actually shy sometimes but now it’s sex and wasn’t it so much better when girls didn’t talk about it and seemed like perfect chestnut locked dresser drawer. Sat there for hours fiddling with the bobby pin found next to perfume and you finally get it open and ah there’s a worn picture of first boyfriend that you know she had in a frame but took it down and locked it up because she’s a typist now and that’s for schoolgirls.

We go and it’s just like the Sands. Same kids on stage holding their electric guitar like somebody is gonna take it from them and I just might. Same married couples and drunk bastards ignoring the guy on the stage in the next room singing songs from ten years ago like he’s sung ’em every night for all that time and he has, we all have. I know the guy up there from when we were the hottest things in New York; I look at his face and he sees me but it’s like driving by a chain gang and seeing ’em sweat in your rear view mirror. Anyway we had eight shots of whiskey because it’s a weeknight in Las Vegas and we’re entitled.



And I’m awake.
Left clear.
Right clear.
I’m afraid to look up.
Up is always a bitch.
Down is clear, at least.
What the fuck am I doing.
I look up.
It’s clear, I guess.
Fucking vultures though.
I’m yelling.
Vultures use projectile vomit as a defensive mechanism; their vomit is as corrosive as hydrochloric acid.
I read that somewhere.
My god is an angry god.
I’m still yelling at them.
It’s not words anymore though.
Warren wakes up.
This is our normal morning routine, but it doesn’t stop him from being angry.
He throws a can at me.
What an asshole.
He‘s saying something.
“Shut the fuck up.”
I do.
He keeps talking.
“You wouldn’t stop mumbling about Clint Eastwood in your sleep last night, I almost smothered you with your pillow.”
He knows I used to watch Westerns all the time, back home, and he likes to try and connect some kind of homoerotic shit to it.
I just like the shooting.
He’s still talking.
“I’m sick of this desert bullshit, where the fuck are we?”
“Almost halfway through, another day until Flagstaff, I think.”
He doesn’t say anything, just gets up.
This is a rare blessing.
We’re heading West.
We’ve been taking Route 66 since Missouri.
People used to call it the Main Street of America.
The Federal Government removed it from the Highway System once they realized they had built better, faster routes.
It was obsolete, but people still liked it, so they stuck “Historic” in front of it.
I read that somewhere.
We used to have a car, but gas stations have been empty and dry since New Mexico.
We used to see people too, but nobody really goes further West than Tuscon anymore.
That makes us frontiersmen, I guess.
I like that.