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Chapter One

TWO DAYS AGO I AWOKE WITH A
HANGOVER THAT COULD KILL A HORSE

The late Caribbean sun was incinerating my
naked carcass. I tried to open my eyes but they felt
like they were sealed shut with sand and grit. If I
kept laying here there was a damn good chance that
I would die of dehydration and heat stroke or get a
hell of a case of sunburn on my johnson. The only
reason I had awoken from my marijuana and booze
induced narcotic-like feeling sleep was the gentle
touch of the ocean on the bottoms of my feet as the
tide came in. I moaned and forced myself up into a
sitting position. If there was a chart to rate
hangovers by, say on a scale of one to five, five
being the kind that would knock a gorilla on his ass,
and one being the kind that a strong cup of coffee
would take care of, the hangover I have right now is
off the charts at a seven. I threw up some Blackjack
gum earlier this morning and I don't think they even
make that crap anymore. To make matters worse, I
could take a shit through a screen door, if you know
what I mean.
I'm normally a six pack a day kind of guy.
Two beers with my breakfast, two with supper, and
two in the evening as the day winds down. That
may have the folks at AA classifying me as a lush
but I beg to differ. I very rarely tie one on and I
function in my day to day activities just fine, thank
you, and I even get a kickass workout in every
morning. I run two miles down the beach, swim a
mile, and run the two miles back. Seven days a
week. Just give a skid row rummy five bucks and a
short dog of MD 20-20 for incentive to even
attempt that workout and watch the results. But
man, did I tie one on last night. I hooked up with
these two tourist chicks down here on spring break
who thought I was some fuckin' Jimmy Buffett
throwback - even though with my out of control
hair and beard I more than resembled a member of a
ZZ Top tribute band - because I live in an old
Airstream trailer on the beach. They must have
bought me close to a half a case of Corona and I
don't know how many shots of that tequila that the
old lead singer from Van Halen - the shitty one - is
always pimping. I threw in a half ounce of weed
and a little blow for the party and we wound up
having a threesome right there on the beach. As I
looked over my shoulder I could see them still
passed out together on a beach blanket about twenty
yards away. I don't think either of those girls
couldn't even buy liquor legally if they were back in
the states.
The sudden thought of that forced me to my
feet which almost made me pass out. I was just a
couple years short of fifty with a very questionable
history and background so I definitely didn't want
the local law to discover me laying naked on the
beach much less in the vicinity of two possibly
underage naked girls. I slipped on my shorts and
hurriedly walked the quarter mile to my old battered
GEO Metro. Over three hundred thousand miles and
still running like a top. There was still a few cold
beers floating around in my cooler in the backseat. I
popped the cap off of one and drained it in one long
gulp. Yes! Hair of the dog. Breakfast of champions.
I turned the key and listened as the engine sputtered,
caught, and then purred just like a kitten. I opened
up the last beer and took another refreshing pull.
Life was going to be OK.
I put her in gear and took off for home.
Passing by a burned down cantina I gave it a quick
eyeballing. The only thing left standing after the
blaze were the cinder block walls. The owner had
nodded off after shooting up a spoon of brown
heroin, failing to extinguish the candle used to heat
his spoon, and that wound up torching both himself
and his place of business. Against the north wall,
buried four feet down in a airtight, watertight,
plastic Pelican case normally used by rock and roll
roadies to keep electronic gear in, was a thick file in
a briefcase that I had placed there years ago. Day by
day it's contents increased in value. When I finally
realized just how valuable it was and how
dangerous it was becoming to own is when I had
hired Javier to place a little safeguard surprise
above it. It had been expensive but worth it in the
long run. Really cut down on the worry and stress
factor.
When I turned into the grove of palm trees
that partially obscured the view of my trailer from
the road I felt something in me stir. And not just my
ravaged guts. The door of my trailer was wide open
and I could hear my stereo - a Bose, which was the
most valuable item in the trailer - blasting. Good old
Mr. Earle, the Texas troubadour, was busy cursing
out the government:

"So fuck the FCC
Fuck the FBI
Fuck the CIA
Livin' in the motherfuckin' USA"

What the fuck is going on here? If I was
being robbed they were sure going about it in a
dumb ass fashion. My rifle was inside the trailer so I
reached under the front seat of the Metro and picked
up the German switchblade I had traded even up for
a bag of quality Mexican weed with a European
tourist steroid freak who had sported an eye patch
and some unusual gang-like tattoos on his biceps.
I snapped the blade open and held it close to
my side as I walked up to the trailer.

To be continued...

------
Scott L. Anderson


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The following comments are for "Salt On The Nuts - Chapter One (R)"
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