By Cato Jiminez, Kosmo International Bureau

THE BORDER, AZ—Carson drives. This is a
story in of itself, but perhaps for another time, when the dust has settled and
the chollos have
bought out and retired to the chicken-wire suburbs of the Saguaro. For now,
though, he drives. The mission was
straight forward enough—we needed Cigs. The problem? The mushrooms, with their strange gonzo juices coursing
through our veins and surrounding our exoskeletons in a fetid aura of hilltop
mysticism. Fake Hollywood backdrops of dust-choked mountains, with their
dull-red arachnid eyes bluring in the distance, threaten a layman’s sense of
time-space, but Carson has no time for scientific hypotheses—he guns into
fourth gear, passing a roadside shrine without so much as a moment’s
hesitation.

“Buddha,”
I said, supposedly muttering under my breath, but a strangled exclamation now
has to pass for self-restraint.

Carson
turns and looks . “What?”

“Buddha.
You know, Buddha. Siddhartha, whatever, it’s you– you, sir, are the 52nd
reincarnation of said enlightened figure.”

“That’sboddhivista, not
Buddha. Besides, I don’t subscribe to that, man. Not my sort of racket.”

Never
mind. He’d realize soon enough his reincarnated state, and like a thousand
grams of star dust it’d blast him senseless, unconscious ”¦ choking on the floor
in shock as Pablo robbed him clean.

The
imposing specter of a massive neon cross, the lone advertisement for the Third
Baptist (gringo banditos)
Church of South Tucson looms in the near horizon. I cross myself, and muttering
what I took to be a version of the Hail Mary underneath my breath.

“Dude,
you’re not even Catholic.”

“Never
mind that. You can’t be too sure. Religion’s like sex—spread your seed, and you
have a better chance of survival. It’s straight science.”

“So,
just like roulette?”

“Roulette
as well.”

“That’s
not even a Catholic church!”

“Pidgin
religion is still religion.
Skim milk is still dairy, still sold in cartons.”

“Pigeons?
I hate those things—goddamn birds. You ready?”

This
was subterfuge on the highest level.

“I’m
ready as a walrus,” I replied, and slammed the door shut.

Show
Time!

Bullshitting
(image-setting, in b-school terms) is the most American of arts, and I am the
love child of Danny Ocean and Eva Hesse. Stride, Baby—stride through the dull darkness of
this Hopperian valley. And for Pete’s sake, avoid the hypnotic gaze of the
dismembered orb of the Circled K.

“A
pack of Camels, please.”

The
station was a fluorescent temple of Nothingness, with three exceptions: a
were-lizard clerk, a prostitute, and some drug-addled man who seems incapable
of standing without leaning on the glass counter for support. Leaning gently, I channel Baryshnikov
while fighting off the urge to start a conversation about, of all things, the
Washington Redskins (great game, huh? Talk about a quarterback coming out of
nowhere. Where’d he play college?… my aunt went there!).

Sliding
my ID across the table, I look up as angry shock replaces my transient moment
of panic—this serpentine fucker is
trying to call a bluff!

“Your
ID’s expired,” he says, a sly smirk just barely concealing a flickering
tongue that thinks it s
mells blood.

But
the sanguinary scent is from an air freshener (99 cents), and this clerk is
unaware that I, Baron of the Cavern, can control time with a mere slight of
hand. I quickly flick my wrist under the counter; The Whore notices.

“Sir,”
I say, my Ocean genes coming to the surface, “I believe the present year
to be 2007.”

Taking
the ID back, his tentacles reexamine the card. The Wench hits her heels against
the ice-cream freezer in a flamenco beat, and I sorely regret leaving my widow
maker back at the house.

And
then….

…he
laughs.

“Looks
like the customer wins again, Mel,” she mocks, yet to move from her roost
of Firecrackers and frozen Snickers.

“Second
time this month. I can’t believe it.”

“Hmm,
losing your touch, Mel.”
I mutter insouciantly, but low enough so it falls bellow his serpentine hearing
frequencies. This was getting too dangerous; I could feel my calm facade
breaking under pressure. The two continued to converse in a vacuum lost for
time to talk of past flaws. There is only time for the future—a future of
flavored smokes beneath the moonlit silhouettes of the Great Pyramids of the
Valley.

I
slowly retreat towards the glass doors, grinning in sheer desperation. I can
almost feel the Lizard clawing for a second chance….The Whore! I turn around
in double-speed, feeling the whiplash shoot up my vertebrae, half-expecting to
see her poised with a Choco-Taco in one hand and a handsaw in the other.

Instead,
she hasn’t moved, and I begin to wonder whether or not she is part of the
décor. It’s too late, though—the door shuts, and I’m walking Spanish, one-two
to the car, one-two one-two…

A
woman’s head leans against the window of the car parked opposite to ours. I
shoot Carson a death stare (how in Jehovah’s name did this happen?), but he grins maniacally from ear to
ear; he’s lost it too. Collateral damage; these things do happen, I suppose.