“There’s the three-day nonstop revival,” said Serge.

“We do need grace,” said Zargoza.

“I have sinned,” said Serge.

They pulled off the causeway into a sea of cars parked outside an auditorium bathed in floodlights. Inside, the show was in full swing, the man on the stage talking fast, stiff-arming people in the forehead, knocking them over. His burly assistants/bouncers worked the crowd with collection baskets. Zargoza hung back at the rear of the hall, but Serge grabbed Lenny by the arm and made for the stage, to be healed.

The preacher had already selected a group of twelve, but Serge and Lenny jumped right up and took their place at the end of the line. The preacher saw them, but didn’t want to mess up a good thing. He worked his way down the row, interviewing each person with a microphone over the PA system.

“And what is your name, my brother?”

“Serge.”

“And what is your affliction?”

“I’m crazy.”

The preacher started to ask another question but thought better of it and skipped to Lenny.

“And what is your name, my brother?”

“Lenny.”

“And what is your affliction.”

“I have a problem with weed.”

The preacher raised an arm to the crowd and bellowed into the microphone, “He has a problem with the evil weed, tobacco!”

“No, preach, I mean pot,” said Lenny.

“He has a problem with the demon weed mareeee-juana!”

“Well, I wouldn’t really say demon.”

“He is caught in the fangs of dope! He wants to rid himself forever of its scourge!”

“Actually, I just want to cut down,” Lenny said, patting his stomach. “I’m starting to get a bit of a gut from the munchies.”

The preacher furrowed his brow at Lenny and then backed up on the stage to address the group as a whole.

“Do you believe in the power of the one true living God?”

“Yes!” the group said together.

“Do you reject Satan and all his works?”

“Yes!” the group said again.

“Yes!” said Serge. “Except for Led Zeppelin’s fourth album.”

The preacher glared at Serge.

Serge shrugged his shoulders. “It’s a classic.”

Large hands grabbed Serge and Lenny from behind and they were given the bum’s rush by security.

Zargoza made a break from the back of the auditorium for the parking lot, and he already had the car in the circular drive when the doors burst open and Serge and Lenny hit the pavement.

O n the other side of town, at the studios of the Florida Cable News network, Blaine Crease was summoned by the news director for an emergency three-A.M. meeting.

Correspondent Blaine Crease was the undisputed journalistic star of the upstart news network. He was brilliant with delivery, big on flash, short of facts, reckless with accuracy and destined to go places. As the newest network on the block, FCN needed to grab attention, and Crease was their guy. A former stunt man, he reported every story as if danger were all around. He was the master of the “newsman as fearless participant” feature story. He went on SWAT team raids, got in the tank with killer whales, threatened to fistfight murderers during jailhouse interviews, rappelled from small buildings, and ate with a large fork from the latest lot of recalled food.

Crease often appeared on camera scuffed up, bruised and bleeding, usually because he had rolled himself on the ground just before going on the air. If the story lacked drama, he’d set up a wind machine just off camera. It could be a piece about geranium season, but Crease would be leaning into the wind, fighting for balance to hold the pose that made his hair look dashing in a gale. He wore combat fatigues, flak jackets and helmets whenever it was unnecessary. But most of all, Crease liked to ride loud, fast things. Ambulances, fire engines, boats, planes.

Consequently, Crease was beside himself when the news director of FCN called him into the office in the middle of the night and gave Crease the assignment he’d been waiting for all his life.

“Good, glad to hear it,” said the news director. He left the room and returned shortly with a small metal cage.

“What’s that?” said Crease.

“You’re taking Toto along.”

“Like hell I am! It’s demeaning! I’m the star of this network!”

“Now you listen to me!” said the director. “You may be the highest-rated human on the network, but this dog butters our bread… Catch!” The director threw a box of liver snaps hard into Blaine ’s chest.

20

Zargoza roared up in his BMW just as the bouncers tossed Serge and Lenny out of the all-night revival. They hopped in, and Zargoza sped out of the driveway.

“You’re right about Zeppelin’s fourth album,” Zargoza told Serge. “It rules.”

Serge launched into air guitar of the album’s first cut, “Black Dog.” Zargoza joined in playing drums on the steering wheel. Lenny growled with a Kmart Robert Plant, but it was serviceable.

“Hey, hey, mama said the way you move-gonna make you sweat, gonna make you groove!”

Serge made guitar sounds with his mouth and Zargoza pounded on the wheel.

“…been so long since I found out, what people mean by dinin’ out!”

Serge resumed the scorching guitar part again, but Zargoza had a funny look on his face.

“Whoa! Whoa! Stop it! Hold the fuckin’ train!”

The others fell quiet.

“What was that?” Zargoza asked Lenny.

“What?”

“That lyric. Did you say ‘what people mean by dinin’ out’?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s not how it goes.”

“Yes it is.”

“No it isn’t you boob. It’s down and out.”

“No it isn’t,” said Lenny.

“What kind of shithead are you?” said Zargoza. “Jimmy Page is choppin’ the most savage guitar licks ever laid down, and you think Plant is singing about not getting out to White Castle enough?”

“I didn’t give it much thought,” said Lenny. “I figured they were very busy in the recording studio and they ate a lot of takeout.”

“It’s down and out!” said Zargoza. “He’s talkin’ about the struggle of the common man!”

“Now I’m hungry,” said Lenny.

“Me too,” said Zargoza. “Let’s find a place.”

Lenny fired up a tubular joint-“so I can taste my dinner.” They turned onto U.S. 19, fast-food row, and pulled in the drive-through lane at the new fried-chicken-skin joint.

Lenny was quite high now. “This is the best place!” he said. “They get rid of all the damn meat so you just get the skin. That’s all we’ve ever wanted. That’s all we’ve ever asked for.”

He took another hit.

“Why do they say the drinks are king-size, like that’s the biggest possible comparison. Look at Prince Charles-no superlatives spring to mind there,” said Lenny. “You wanna get my money? Start talking about a dictator or a conqueror. Like Attilasized, or Stalin-sized!…”

“What the fuck’s he talking about?” Zargoza asked Serge.

“Free-associating,” said Serge. “I’ve seen this sort of thing before. Verbal incontinence. Just vomiting words.”

“When does it stop?” asked Zargoza.

“It doesn’t,” said Serge. “Not without intervention.”

Zargoza glanced back at Lenny and then at Serge. “We’re up next at the ordering microphone. You need to suppress that shit with prejudice.”

Serge turned around and gave Lenny the mondo eye, which made Lenny extremely paranoid, and he became quiet.

“That should do it,” said Serge. “He’ll go on an introspective journey now. But be prepared. We may hear weeping.”

Zargoza rolled up to the menu board. The small metal speaker came on. “May I take your order?”

“Yes,” said Zargoza. “I’d like your mega-combo meal…number twelve. Do I get the Galactic Massacre playing pieces with that?”

“Yes, you do.”

“Okay, and I’ll take the extra-crunchy fried chicken skin on a stick…”

Lenny leaned over the side of the car toward the speaker.