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(Red) The next morning both Max Riistoffel and DJFalstaff were gone. From Max's bedroom, a light gray trail of saliva could be seen tracing a crooked path down the hall and to the front door, then outside, down a series of steps and along the sidewalk to the corner. It disappeared with a hard left heading off in the direction of the Panhandle. Over the next few days there were rumors about the Haight of a crazed man running naked through the streets in the early morning hours with the head of his penis on fire. He was ranting rather loudly about some unwarranted deprogramming and how he had to find "peace for his peduncle?!?" Some hippies even said they saw him plunge into the bay to put out his fire and ultimately swim off towards the island of Alcatraz... but I'm pretty sure they were high. DJFalstaff apparently suffered through a similar but altogether different style of trauma. All that we are really certain about is that we are decidedly uncertain about it. Here is what I can piece together at this point. .J.S. and I were left standing bleary-eyed in our underwear on the front stoop to ponder the long trail of drool heading off down the street. We thought it best, for safety sake, to relocate to the back of the house to consider this peculiar turn of events. We shuffled to the back, calling for Falstaff to get his ass out of bed and check this shit out. A quick look around the living room told us that things were not right. Against the far wall we encountered a strange vinyl disk being spun backwards upon a turntable. It was, oddly enough, the powerhouse Bay Area band from the 70's that had been plaguing our crew for the length of its travels. The disk was Journey's latest release and the needle was stuck in a single groove. Steve Perry's garbled voice was crooning "There's no place like Gnome, there's no place like Gnome," or something to that effect. Holiday lights encircling the room were flickering in time with the music. In front of the stereo was a badly charred piece of carpeting about 15 inches in diameter with a creamy, whipped center. The whipped filling was sprinkled with what appeared to be some type of Pixie Dust. Your guess is as good as mine is as to what befell the brave DJFalstaff. J.S. and I looked at each other briefly and, without speaking a word, packed our shit. The time had come to saddle up the ponies; we had apparently overstayed our welcome. The tramp, Loki and I piled into my beaten Wrangler and pointed it north up the 101 in triple-digit mid-day heat... toward the safety of Humbolt Nation and the tall trees and thick fogs that we knew would greet us there. And I didn't look back once, knowing all too well that, someday soon, I would return to try and figure it all out. +=+ Red +=+
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