The Voyage of Nate Berg - Part One - by Nate Berg
Yes, this story is direct from Nate Berg himself. Read on and be fascinated at such a tale of debauchery as the villain survives a storm and heads West, back to the land of Buck City... -n.l.
1. The Vicious Dog
We last left off.... me and you, with the telling of the story of the seven days I did at the Farm for trying to take a Lexus and comparisons between backstage at the Vans Warped Tour and the Correctional Authority Chowhall. Then the shotgun in my face as I tried to breakup a kidnapping, accidental heroism or nosiness, and my trip to Pensacola Florida. I was released/dethroned by Jerry Baranowski as Jerry's Inhouse Agent deservedly for corrupt, thuggish behavior when my nose should have been in the books of booking, not looking for new enemies to bring down.
I met up with my good friend Roger at Ruby Tuesdays in the Cordova Mall in Pensacola. I had originally met Roger at a Pensacola coffeehouse on a previous trip to visit my family. He was innocently eavesdropping on my conversation with three pretty females. An ex-Navy guy, Roger grew up in Delano, Ca, 30 miles from Bakersfield.
"You're from Bakersfield. I'm from Delano," he piped up. "Have you ever heard of Jerry's Pizza?" and the friendship grew from there. We both share a mighty sick sense of humor.
This time he brings a galpal Susan; we all gonna have some fun. But first we gotta deal with a natural aberration of enormous magnitude. Hurricane Dennis fast approached some thirty-six hours away. It was predicated to be a nasty one: Category 4.
Eighty-five percent of the town boarded up their houses and fled to Mississippi, Georgia... Ten percent of the population decided to ride it out, defend their homes from 140 mph winds, floodwater, and the ever present threat of looters. The remaining five percent would be up to no good; you could lump us in with that group.
Susan worked the phones to locate the possible social event of the hurricane. The apty called "hurricane party".
Of course, before the fact, a hurricane party is a mythical beast. After every person in a larger group exhausted every effort to find one, the entire group descended upon a mutual location, for a manic, orgylike, and drunken delirium of courage and stupidity. So as the eye of the hurricane made landfall twelve miles away, we got whipped by the outer bands of 140 mph winds, and got in the car and went to the Lagyoza House.
If you have ever been outside in a major hurricane, it is fair to say it is like being underwater without a snorkel, yet you're able to breathe. Water is driven at you from every direction, even upwards from the ground. Downed powerlines are a dangerous hazard to navigate. Roger's navy skills allowed us to decide what lines to ride over assuredly. Even inside the car we had to raise our voices to a shout in order to communicate with anyone riding in the car.
We got to Lagyoza's at the peak of the storm. Inside, there are a lot of people who I don't know and a lot of people who don't know me. There is also a lot of gin, vodka. It's candles only as the power is out over the entire city. A naked girl answers the door, another is running down the hall giggling. A booming revelry rings throughout the house, almost as loud as the winds that are coming from the Gulf of Mexico, to try and scoop us up.
We enter.
Later we leave to a different location, to go swimming in someone's pool. Like a underwater rollercoaster or crashing, chlorine ocean. Watch out for the whirling 2"x 4"s spinning round the yard! Heads up, there goes the neighbor kids tricycle!!! A good time for target practice. Roger's roommate Rob unwittingly supplies the .22 caliber WWII Luger. Nobody wanted any part of this, they were all passed out or simply thought the idea too dangerous, so I slipped alone behind the trees by the railroad tracks, engulfed by the whispering bushes as the worst had passed us by and the emptiness in other people's homes egged me on.
"You can do anything, anything that you want, you are unstoppable," she said to me, a siren voice, honey and comb. Seductive. There is something very familiar with her voice I can't label it; I've heard her before. She has whispered to me many times. Sometimes in the flesh; I just can't put my finger on which one she is and why.
It is time to see how other people live, see their bedrooms. Prowl around in their dry garages, because someone wants me to.
This one has a reinforced wooden gate. I break it down, smash the patio glass with the iron barbecue fixture. I try on a business suit in the master bedroom and look in the mirror. I look ridiculous in a suit with long, lank, greasy hair. I would have to get it cut before I could wear a suit again, there is something wrong with this picture. I ask the voice, but there is nothing. Just me in my soaking wet boxer shorts with the loaded Luger and bottle of Merlot, blood dark on my lips, cascading down my chin and neck onto my chest, staining the shirt and suit combo that would never make it back to the closet.
Attention People of Pensacola: Lock Up Your Car. Storm now over Roger and I make an agreement. I would cash in the return flight fare and put it in his gas tank, we would ride to Bako and Delano, like Thelma and Louise without the Evil Kinieval shit at the end of the movie. Stopping in New Orleans, Dallas, El Paso, Juarez, San Diego, Tijuana, Long Beach and maybe Hollywood. We would need to stock up on supplies and money. He would pack, I would punish the residents of Pensacola for their inability to lock up their cars as we waited for a money order from Roger's folks back in Delano. It took ten days and a lot of charm and some confidence scams before we get out of town, en route to Chester and 19th. The Final Line reads like this:
(editor's note - I am censoring out all the stuff I took, lets just say it was overkill ridiculous) We got plenty of food via military MREs, self sustainable rations given out during hurricanes. Roger could modify the sulfur heaters into letter bombs.
We had finally put Pensacola in the rearview mirror, and said good bye to all of our new friends on a Monday night, destined to make it to New Orleans and Bourbon Street before Midnight, to start leg one, that's when I told Roger of the "Cherry on Top".
We had both tired of this one guy, a charmless date-rape artist who showed both Roger and myself scorn when we came to pick up Susan a day or two earlier at his and his snob roommate's house. I forget his name but he had no respect for our friends at Lagyoza. So I excused myself to the bathroom and pissed in every container I could find (shampoo, conditioner, body wash, cologne....), got the sharpest knife in his imported knife collection from his kitchen, then excused myself to the car.
1. The Vicious Dog
We last left off.... me and you, with the telling of the story of the seven days I did at the Farm for trying to take a Lexus and comparisons between backstage at the Vans Warped Tour and the Correctional Authority Chowhall. Then the shotgun in my face as I tried to breakup a kidnapping, accidental heroism or nosiness, and my trip to Pensacola Florida. I was released/dethroned by Jerry Baranowski as Jerry's Inhouse Agent deservedly for corrupt, thuggish behavior when my nose should have been in the books of booking, not looking for new enemies to bring down.
I met up with my good friend Roger at Ruby Tuesdays in the Cordova Mall in Pensacola. I had originally met Roger at a Pensacola coffeehouse on a previous trip to visit my family. He was innocently eavesdropping on my conversation with three pretty females. An ex-Navy guy, Roger grew up in Delano, Ca, 30 miles from Bakersfield.
"You're from Bakersfield. I'm from Delano," he piped up. "Have you ever heard of Jerry's Pizza?" and the friendship grew from there. We both share a mighty sick sense of humor.
This time he brings a galpal Susan; we all gonna have some fun. But first we gotta deal with a natural aberration of enormous magnitude. Hurricane Dennis fast approached some thirty-six hours away. It was predicated to be a nasty one: Category 4.
Eighty-five percent of the town boarded up their houses and fled to Mississippi, Georgia... Ten percent of the population decided to ride it out, defend their homes from 140 mph winds, floodwater, and the ever present threat of looters. The remaining five percent would be up to no good; you could lump us in with that group.
Susan worked the phones to locate the possible social event of the hurricane. The apty called "hurricane party".
Of course, before the fact, a hurricane party is a mythical beast. After every person in a larger group exhausted every effort to find one, the entire group descended upon a mutual location, for a manic, orgylike, and drunken delirium of courage and stupidity. So as the eye of the hurricane made landfall twelve miles away, we got whipped by the outer bands of 140 mph winds, and got in the car and went to the Lagyoza House.
If you have ever been outside in a major hurricane, it is fair to say it is like being underwater without a snorkel, yet you're able to breathe. Water is driven at you from every direction, even upwards from the ground. Downed powerlines are a dangerous hazard to navigate. Roger's navy skills allowed us to decide what lines to ride over assuredly. Even inside the car we had to raise our voices to a shout in order to communicate with anyone riding in the car.
We got to Lagyoza's at the peak of the storm. Inside, there are a lot of people who I don't know and a lot of people who don't know me. There is also a lot of gin, vodka. It's candles only as the power is out over the entire city. A naked girl answers the door, another is running down the hall giggling. A booming revelry rings throughout the house, almost as loud as the winds that are coming from the Gulf of Mexico, to try and scoop us up.
We enter.
Later we leave to a different location, to go swimming in someone's pool. Like a underwater rollercoaster or crashing, chlorine ocean. Watch out for the whirling 2"x 4"s spinning round the yard! Heads up, there goes the neighbor kids tricycle!!! A good time for target practice. Roger's roommate Rob unwittingly supplies the .22 caliber WWII Luger. Nobody wanted any part of this, they were all passed out or simply thought the idea too dangerous, so I slipped alone behind the trees by the railroad tracks, engulfed by the whispering bushes as the worst had passed us by and the emptiness in other people's homes egged me on.
"You can do anything, anything that you want, you are unstoppable," she said to me, a siren voice, honey and comb. Seductive. There is something very familiar with her voice I can't label it; I've heard her before. She has whispered to me many times. Sometimes in the flesh; I just can't put my finger on which one she is and why.
It is time to see how other people live, see their bedrooms. Prowl around in their dry garages, because someone wants me to.
This one has a reinforced wooden gate. I break it down, smash the patio glass with the iron barbecue fixture. I try on a business suit in the master bedroom and look in the mirror. I look ridiculous in a suit with long, lank, greasy hair. I would have to get it cut before I could wear a suit again, there is something wrong with this picture. I ask the voice, but there is nothing. Just me in my soaking wet boxer shorts with the loaded Luger and bottle of Merlot, blood dark on my lips, cascading down my chin and neck onto my chest, staining the shirt and suit combo that would never make it back to the closet.
Attention People of Pensacola: Lock Up Your Car. Storm now over Roger and I make an agreement. I would cash in the return flight fare and put it in his gas tank, we would ride to Bako and Delano, like Thelma and Louise without the Evil Kinieval shit at the end of the movie. Stopping in New Orleans, Dallas, El Paso, Juarez, San Diego, Tijuana, Long Beach and maybe Hollywood. We would need to stock up on supplies and money. He would pack, I would punish the residents of Pensacola for their inability to lock up their cars as we waited for a money order from Roger's folks back in Delano. It took ten days and a lot of charm and some confidence scams before we get out of town, en route to Chester and 19th. The Final Line reads like this:
(editor's note - I am censoring out all the stuff I took, lets just say it was overkill ridiculous) We got plenty of food via military MREs, self sustainable rations given out during hurricanes. Roger could modify the sulfur heaters into letter bombs.
We had finally put Pensacola in the rearview mirror, and said good bye to all of our new friends on a Monday night, destined to make it to New Orleans and Bourbon Street before Midnight, to start leg one, that's when I told Roger of the "Cherry on Top".
We had both tired of this one guy, a charmless date-rape artist who showed both Roger and myself scorn when we came to pick up Susan a day or two earlier at his and his snob roommate's house. I forget his name but he had no respect for our friends at Lagyoza. So I excused myself to the bathroom and pissed in every container I could find (shampoo, conditioner, body wash, cologne....), got the sharpest knife in his imported knife collection from his kitchen, then excused myself to the car.
This entry was posted by N.L. Belardes, on
Sunday, August 07, 2005.
You can leave your response.
leave a response