Wordcarpenter Books

Chapter Thirty-six

The Scent of Ammonia

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            It was his lungs that were the concern but when one is addicted and dying it can be dismissed as a small matter. Hell, even the Dane had a bad cough. But the abuse had been severe, just the two of them locking themselves in his room in Mariscal and freebasing. They had both evolved in their technique and intake and the quality of coke was as good as it gets, so it was inevitable that the Dane would up the anty, pushing the envelope just to keep the stakes high.

            Noble had been apartment hunting and took a break at the café in Plaza Foch, enjoying the thick black coffee and the people walking by under the baking sun. Reading didn't stick and people watching was never his thing so he thought he would write something. He felt an urge to give something back to the Dane for his friendship and comraderie, many images sifting through his mind until one stuck, a hooker who had sat in the corner of the Black Door Brothel and smoked. It was his type of thing, the imagery and scent, the sin and setting, so being a musician Reno tried his hand at a song, something he had always wondered if he possessed what it took to make a rhyme. And so he wrote under the midday sun.

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            Noble enjoyed the release of getting the words out of his jumbled head, doubting he would ever show it to the Dutchman. Maybe he would leave it with his papers to give to him after he was dust for the daffodils. What was interesting was the moment he put down his pen and lit a cigarette he spotted the Dane crossing the street. Having been in Ecuador for almost five months he could see the tourists from the long-term residents by dress, shoes and the way they walked, so the Dane stood out for his height, his understated clothes and his hair that looked all white in the sun. He raised his arm and somehow he spotted him. That was how it all started, the downward spiral.

            "Majeera just left. What a pain in the ass." Took a seat, lit a smoke and asked what he was doing.

            "Not much. Crappy book. Don't feel like reading. You?" The glimmer in the iceberg eyes said everything. "Sure, let's do it," said Noble, mischief thick. The Dane bitched about his hostel and the gried they were giving him for having so many women at his place.

            "And on top of that they won't give me a light bulb!" That was where he was going: to the hardware store.

            Life-altering events happen of some mundane chore to such a store, and one never sees it when it happens.

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            "Is that amonia?" Crowded shelves, disorganized and light bulbs cheap, the Dane had spotted a bottle of amonia, the devil's equivalent to baking soda to make crack. The woman behind the counter, who had noticeably pulled down her cleavage for the foreigners, placed the bottle on the counter. The Dane, in typical fashion, broke open the seal and smelled it.

            "I can't smell anything."

            "Here," said Reno. "Let me-"

            "Oh fuck!" He only meant to squeeze the metal bottle a little but it dented and spurted up pure amonia into the Dane's nose. Always clean shaven, he now had an amonia moustache, droplets dripping off his nose. Reno tried to halt his laughter but couldn't, the Dane wavering between surprise, anger and laughter, finally shaking his head and smiling, then focusing on the large bosom behind the counter.

            Noble had only heard that it was another method to freebase. It wasn't until later when he spoke to Carlos the Columbian that he learned that mixing cocaine with baking soda was freebase but cocaine mixed with amonia was crack. Big difference. Baking soda isn't poisonous.

            The Dane haggled and flirted until he had his amonia and light bulb, making the call to his connection as soon as they stepped outside the feneteria.

            "I've been looking for this for a long time," he said. "This is what the boys use at the clubhouse." Walking quickly like a kid about to get his first bicycle, Noble struggled to keep up. The only thing he knew about amonia was it was the ingredient that had almost killed Richard Pryor when he was busy freebasing.

            With the drugs secured, as well as cigarettes, two lighters, a yogurt for it's tin foil lid and as well as a medium soft drink for the pipe he would make, Noble bought some sweet buns and chips, the only things the Dane ever ate, and the only things he had an appetite for too. Entering the hostel, Noble took a backseat and Reno stepped forward not expecting much other than a good one-on-one time with the Dane who thirsted to removed himself from his funk from his night with Majeera. Sunny and mid-afternoon on a Tuesday, thoughts of sightseeing or of doing chores flitted briefly through his mind but as soon as they were gone Reno felt the anticipated thrill of learning from the master.

            The Dane was always very particular about his environment. The curtains were drawn enough for complete privacy but enough for the sun to shine in, the door locked, the beds tidied and his clothes folded but piled in a mess out of the way. All his tools were spread before him in order: the spoon cleaned immaculately, a small matchbox for the ashes, tissue, water bottle, electrical tape for the foil for the top of the plastic pipe, a cigarette already lit to burn the hole in the side of the soft drink bottle, ashtray emptied and centered on the table, television on to drown out the deept voices of robust discussion. As before the pipe was flawless, a jailbird who could make anything out of ordinary items.

            "I might as well give this to you now." Pulled out the ten napkins it had taken to get the song right.

            "What? I have tissue."

            "I wanted to thank you for being such a good friend."

            "Ah," hand waving it away, slight uneasiness in his bearing.

            "Listen Dane Man, you just keep doing your little engineering thing there and I'll read it. I can't write worth tiddly but I do wonder if you will catch where this song comes from."

            "You wrote a song?"

            "No, I can't write songs but I wanted to give you something other than a pack of cigarettes, if you catch my drift." He waved again but this time nodding, eyes focused on the items of utility at his fingertips.

            "Be gentle. It's-. No, you tell me if you know where this took place."

            "Okay."

            "It's called the Smokey Peach."

 

A grin so crooked and skin so dry,

Pain so deep I saw and cried,

‘You play?' she said with glimmering guile,

‘I do,' I said, ‘with poise and style.'

 

Mischief appeared, she grabbed my joint,

Hand now coiled to touch my point,

‘A stick like yours is rare for me,

A form so hard it buckles my knees.'

 

Her eyes alive like flames of fire,

She beamed and stroked and breathed desire,

She pulled her sleeve and proved it true,

A pie she was with a peach tattoo.

 

I snickered and tickled enjoying my sin,

I knew her gist as she spoke again:

‘A rogue you are, my alpha with spark,

But mischief is mine to leave my mark.'

 

Knowing its yield was higher than most,

Breaking rules but not to boast.

Laughing with ease and using my tact,

‘I'm good,' I said ‘and not a hack.'

 

Her eyes aflame with spears of fire,

She steamed and stoked and seethed desire,

She lifted her shirt and showed her boobs,

A peach she was with nipple tattoos.

 

Her hands ablaze with heat now dire,

She screamed and soaked my tool of fire,

She flashed her skirt when I called,

A patch she had with peach all bald.

 

A peach you are and not a pooch,

Creamy and warm and with hooch to boot,

A keeper and breeder, a catch to snatch,

My own sweet peach with no one to match.

 

Her eyes still smoking with flames now dry,

She beamed and kicked and muted her cry,

She pulled her wig and showed to teach,

A head so bare in the shape of a peach.

 

Expert at pranks and tricks to lure,

Philosopher and saint, sinner and doer,

Michief is hers, her guide her God,

Breaking down walls with only a nod.

 

            "Sorry, I was laughing after the second verse. Never heard anything like that before!"

            "So you're saying it's original."

            "Sure, that's it. And I know where you got that from. It was that chick in the corner of the brothel, the one who was always smoking."

            "Good, that was the most important thing. A bit crass but what the hell. It was fun to pen. It was too hot to read today."

            "You wrote that today?"

            "Just finished the last few lines when I saw you. Strange coincidence."

            "We can work with it, but stop your jabbering and lets dig in here."

            A new level of care and interest dominated the Dane's focus as he mixed the coke with amonia, added water and then burned the spoon with fire, crackling in a higher pitch than was normal. He held the lighter much lower knowing the flammability of amonia, afraid of the spoon's contents bursting into an inferno. Calmly, the white power turned into oil, the water evaporated and left a hard chunk of crack that looked like a tooth. He had to hold it in his hand and say "See?"

            "Good technique with the tech."

            "The only thing I'm not sure about it the mix," he said.

            "Not the same as bicarbonado?"

            "I think it's more. But this is pure. This will be different. I checked every pharmacia in this city but never thought of a hardware store. But this is pure." As usual he packed a very large chunk on the bed of ash in the bowl of the pipe and handed it to Reno.

            "A gentleman," he said, "but why don't you take the first hit. It's me you're with. You take the maiden voyage." It was just the response that had made Reno his undisputed wingman, most of the time accepting the first pipe with respect.

            "Okay, make sure you keep the flame on it until I pull away."

            "Yeah, yeah." So in an exagerated motion he exhaled, loosened his shoulders, smiled like Loki and held the pipe as if it were the elixir to everlasting life. Steady with the flame he patiently sucked the crack, turning it back into a crackling liquid intermixing with the ash, taking puffs deep into his lungs, never wavering his gaze from the behavior of the flame and bowl. Born with Hindenburg lungs. When he pulled away he opened his eyes wide and was about to speak but Reno held his hand up and shook his head.

            "I have the floor. You close those eyes and keep the bugger in." Reno loved his free reign of being and language with this unique man from Denmark. And that was what he did: leaned back against the wall, closed his eyes and put his hands over his ears until he exhaled. Reno knew the drill, that he never took a second hit from the pipe because he got it all on the first try.

            "That-"

            "Smells different."

            "That-" He stopped to witness the complete lack of smoke that came out of his dungenous lungs.

            "Yeah, pack me one." Reno never dared to tamper with the goodies when the Dane was in the driver's seat. His system was so exact, the ashes and small flakes of crack going into a separate matchbox for persual later, the pipe bowl scoured and scarped clean, a fresh ash placed carefully and packed down lightly and evenly and then the large rock.

            "Remember-"

            "Yeah, yeah." The laughter was immense.

            "This-"

            "Yeah, you were saying." He waved his hand. He knew words would only blunt the experience.

            "Do-"

            "I know man. Ready? No Mickey Mouse with the feugo."

            "You might-"

            "Hit it Dane Man!" And so that was when Reno took his first hit of crack. It tasted different, purer but also the chemical in the amonia was intoxicating, like ether maybe, his heart jumping from forty to one-forty in five seconds flat, sweat covering his face, his forehead beading and relaxed, his eyes opened as if for the first time in 48 years. Didn't dare to speak as he went to the other bed, leaned against the wal and closed his eyes, arms now like feathers, floppy, covering his ears gently so he could hear his nervous system go into overload as if the roar of the ocean in a seashell. The exhale was watched intently, every detail seen and checked. When Reno spoke his voice sounded distant.

            "That-"

            "Is different."

            "Wow. It's-" A swirl of epitomes usurped sober thoughts, a whirlwind of groundbreaking insights overhwhelmed the sloppiness of his tongue, now numbed along with his lips.

            "Nothing came out." This was his language to be a proud teacher, the Dane disliking those who inhaled and exhaled the medicine like it were a cigarette.

            "I-"

            "I know."

            "My heart is-"

            "We should have picked up some Valium." Reno put his hand to his chest and was alarmed at its pace, thinking he was halucinating. Instead he wiped the sweat from his face after a drip off the tip of his nose. Reno took off his sweater and long-sleeved shirt, sweat already soaked through his t-shirt.

            "The rock tastes so pure." They both moved around their tongues tasting the pure distilled essence of the cocoa leaf. "But the amonia is more like a chemical." The Dane, happy with his new concoction, said he'd alter the mix, but instead of less he poured more into the spoon, which made the rock like splintered crystal. They smoked another one and sat there stunned, minds racing, sunlight reflecting the sweat shimmering on the skin, eyes unable to express the profundities streaming through too fast for the tongue now uncoordinated.

            The procedure was repeated with the same finesse and eye for detail but the next was even stronger, having more amonia in the rock. Words from the poem about the Black Lily raced through Reno's mind but he didn't want to open a can of worms that would take too long to explain, but the Dane gushed like a waterfall, speaking of his dozen girlfriends and his frustration with finding one who gave him his freedom to do what he wanted.

            "They do give you your freedom though. I mean they know you have a woman in every port."

            "But it's the little things. Like Majeera this morning asking for money for a pedicure." This Warren Beaty of Quito had had so many women it was tough to gauge what exactly he wanted.

            "Find one who has money who wants you for your genes. You need to have some kids man." Then it came out, the story of an affair with a married women in Denmark who had a daughter nine months later, the child with the same coloring as the Dane, and unlike the woman's husband. They watched the child grow and knew with certainty it was his so they promised to keep it their secret.

            "Well then you've covered that base."

            "I've told you before. I will never give up one minute of my freedom after paying my dues in prison. No way. So agreed to take care of her and everything is fine there."

            "Will you ever tell her?"

            He thought about it for a moment. "Maybe, when she's a lot older."

            "How old is she now?"

            "About eight or nine. I just can't do what Lars is doing. The job. The routine. The mortgage. I'm the opposite of him. Mind you I understand why he chose that life. Growing up we didn't have any structure. My mother being an alcoholic was always bringing guys back from the bar where she waitressed. For years." The Dane spilled, the fights and the stealing cars and the bikers and the fist fight with his father and his drunkenness with Schnapps at the Christmas table every Christmas, the scene he caused, the anger he felt, the life of crime he chose, the six-year sentence, the guns and the drugs. Everything. Then his repentence after leaving prison, his seven years of sobriety, his success at business, his love he never married, his relapse four years ago and his decision to leave Denmark to get to the best drugs in the world. A confession, an eruption of honesty like a stream busting through a damn built of balsa wood, a confiding or earnestness to get it right, not leaving out any detail but not justifying, just getting the causes and effects straight both for him and for Reno.

            Both their shirts were soaked, eyes sharp, listening to every word, never wavering in personal thoughts out of respect and with the knowledge the Dane would know. More pipes and the room filled up with amonia crack smoke ‘til the sun had set and Kate the Brit came over.

            "No, I don't want any but I wanted to see you," she said. "And you too Noble."

            "Why?" they asked.

            "Callum is having his birthday tonight and you both should be there." The timing could not have been worse, yet Callum was one of the Dane's best friends who would never organize a birthday for himself. Scottish, dour, smart and an accomplished geologist who spent two weeks every month in mining camps looking and drilling for copper and gold, their presence was mandatory. And Kate was not the kind who took no for an answer. The flow could not be recovered, the confession now inhibited, Kate determined to remain and snort her own supply but refusing the pipe, there was a loss, profound, the unloading of the gunny sack now done. And once the lines started Kate couldn't shut up, soon becoming hysterical because of the amonia smoke build up, complaining of a racing heart, turning gray in the face, sweating and smelling, shaking her head and complaining of the lack of fresh air and music. So he and the Dane finished what they had cooked, destroyed the pipe and cleaned up their nest of narcotic sin and left for the crowded Irish bar that only served to overwhelmed and overstimulate the beautiful human flow that had had for a brief moment in time. It was the last time Reno ever did crack cooked with amonia because later that night he thought he was going to expire from a heart attack. It was the last time he and the Dane had a good one-on-one until they went north to San José de Mina to ride horses at a hacienda owned by one of the Dane's girlfriends.

 


 

Chapter Thirty-seven

At the Mouth of the Amazon

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            Finding ones niche enhances the power of creation, the environment nurturing necessary nutrients, the sun and spring water for everlasting life and the spark of hope that ignites the will. Friends don't grade or grind or judge, their own little corner exposed and shared with trust, brothers of similar priorities and fellow participants in the Great Pilgrimage. The sun aflutter of a childhood memory, a reliving and enlivening of what still can be, an aggregate Feng Shui affects without imposing, productivity increases without fuss, love is rampant like a loitering odor, a flower in perpetual bloom. God taking note and opening doors, the exploits and artful execution witnessed, mastership manifest and manifold, the right niche exposing natural talent that cannot be erased. These ideas ruffled through Noble's mind as he walked down the old cobblestone streets of Guapalo.

            Noble was tired of living in one room in a hostel with thin walls and a shared bathroom. He knew that the thicker oxygen of the coastal lowlands would tarnish his lungs and turn them into rust so Quito was the best place for him. And so began his apartment search in earnest. It was somehow symmetrical that he was now in Guapalo, the bohemian colony on a cliff where artists and writers lived. He found a little café called Café d'Artes where he relaxed his swollen feet and eased his aching bones. The view was stunning, volcanoes lined along the horizon, one snow-peaked and the others defining a ride of rock, clouds obscuring as proof of extreme Andean elevation. Looking north along the valley, it was the mouth of the Amazon camouflaged in green wispy streaks of cloud, and a stream that broke ground leading to the Continental Divide of the Oriente. An old monastery was built onto a magnificent church at the base of the valley, one of the oldest and most stunning of all of Quito's unmatchable churches, beside the Spanish Embassy surrounded by homes built hundreds of years ago. With the passing of time square concrete homes dotted the cliff at impossible angles. A view to revere, with the sun leaping up from behind the treed walls of rock to the east, the valley vast and open, whispering unrecorded history in a jungle that stirred with wildlife. The river marked a line on the map in the middle part of the world with boundaries dotted by scribbles of selfish men. Only minutes south of the equator, it felt safe here in volcano alley, the plateau a fortress safe from the watchful eyes of the jackboot of authority. It was God's own nature reserve for hummingbirds and for all things orchid, flowers and foliage intertwined in slow embrace, an Eden of scents and flavored air.

            Noble walked down the narrow street towards the church, passing ancient relics of a time past, carriage ways bricked into solid walls, worn by rain and wear. It was here that the first Europeans began a journey across South America back in 1541. So the story goes, Francisco de Orellana went east to look for much needed food for Pizarro's troops but when he discovered the lush jungles lining the riverbanks he dropped his assignment and followed the river looking for gold. Orellana was obsessed with finding el Dorado and so he and his men traveled the length of the Amazon, which he named after the legendary female warriors of Greece. This was because numerous times women warriors from villages that lined the river attacked him. He lost over half of his 216 men during the journey and took him over eight months to reach the Atlantic Ocean. And it all began here at the church, the lip of Quito and the beginning point to the Amazon River and the river road to the Atlantic.

            If he wanted to go to Brazil he would start his campaign here in Guapalo.

            He stood in front of Orellana's statue and was amazed to see that the man had one eye, a patch covering the right. He thought if a Spaniard with one eye could do it nearly 500 years ago wearing heavy armor, a skirt and boots past his knees, then maybe there was a way through the dense foliage to the other side of the world for someone like Noble. It would entail many scars. But as life should be! Be brave young lad for destiny awaits! It was a bold stroke, and stands along as one of the greatest adventures in the era of colonization of the New World.

            Back up to the main street where the cafes were he bumped into Pedro, the guy he first met when he arrived in Quito.

            "Hey, is that you?" His head still shaved except for the tail at the back, shorter and chubbier than he remembered.

            "My God, is that Pedro? Is that your name?"

            "No way dude! I didn't recognize you. I mean I did but you've lost so much weight."

            "Yeah, I have. Trying my best to eat as much as I can."

            "That would be nice!" Noble could smell the alcohol on him. It was early afternoon.

            "I called you once after we first met, but I think you said you were going to Montanita."

            "Good memory man! Yeah, I did. I did go. I have a buddy there who has a hostel so I can stay for free. Good to get out of Quito some times you know, to chill, relax on the beach, scope some babes. You know how it is." His California upbringing was very much on display.

            "So I guess you live down here?" He never saw his place the first day.

            "I live right there dude, right behind that wall. Small place but cheap."

            "That's actually why I'm down here. I'm looking for an apartment."

            "Cool man. This is a great spot to live. It's safe and it's quiet and it's cheap. Have you checked out the cafes up there? One of them my aunt owns. I work in there some times when she needs me. I grew up here. See that hill over there with the trees still on the side? My family owns that. One thing about Guapalo though man is that it's a small community so everybody knows your business."

            "That shouldn't affect me I don't think."

            "It affects everyone dude!" Pedro was unsteady on his feet, the fumes emitting from his pores.

            "So do you know of any places for rent right now?" His hand went to his baldhead and he massaged the bone protruding from his skull, likely emphasized from years of rubbing it.

            "Yeah, I do. Did you see the one up there across from the café?"

            "Yes, though I was hoping for something a little farther away from the hustle and bustle of downtown Guapalo."

            "Huh, that's funny dude. No, but there might be one down there past the volleyball court. I used to live over there. It was a good spot but I had to move."

            "I've got to get out of the hostel man. It's driving me crazy. Too claustrophobic."

            "I know what you mean dude."

            "Do you have time now to show where that place is down there?" He pointed past the volleyball court where there was a small side street that looked too narrow to have any traffic.

            "Um, sure but there is one thing I have to do first. Say, do you have a cigarette?" Noble, knowing the worth of nicotine offered him two. Pedro's attitude softened a little.

            "How much do you think the rent is down there?"

            "Don't know man, maybe a hundred? A hundred and fifty? Around there. Not too much, especially compared to Mariscal!" Noble lit his cigarette and had one himself.

            "What are the chances of seeing you here? Strange isn't it?"

            "No man. I totally remember you. That was during the three days when those poor bastards died from the contraband booze. That was heavy." Noble was nodding.

            "No drinking for three days. Twenty-nine dead?"

            "They say it was hundreds, but they didn't report it. That stuff is good and real cheap."

            "Smells like gasoline."

            "Ever tried it?"

            "No, actually, I haven't." A glimmer in his eye.

            "Want to try some? I have some in my place."

            "Sure, why not? Like to try things to see what they're like, you know?"

            "I hear you dude. I hear you on that one. Come on." Pedro led him down a narrow walk to a ten-foot-by-ten-foot room with mould on the bare cement walls.

            "Nice pad. Very comfy."

            "It's a little small but the rent is only fifty. Fuck, I still haven't paid this month's rent yet. Been spending my cash on crack. That's another good thing about Guapalo, my dealer is right across the street!" Noble suddenly recollected that that was where they had gone his first day six months ago.

            "Yes, that is handy." Pedro pulled out a plastic water bottle filled with what smelled like fuel.

            "It's pretty strong bro. So don't freak out or anything. I like it though."He took a healthy swig with a dramatic flourish. "Ahh. Burns going down though." He handed it to Noble. The smell almost made him wretch. He took a small swig also followed by a dramatic flourish. Gag reflex on maximum for a flirting moment. Kept it down and knew it would be the last time.

            "That should be illegal!"

            "It is dude!" Pedro thought that was funny, though Noble suspected he was laughing at the flush on his cheeks and the moment of peril of upchucking.

            "Harsh."

            "Totally! But I can get this stuff down here in Guapalo from a guy down the street, a whole liter for two-fifty or some times two twenty-five. It's strong and it lasts. But don't drink too much or it will bite you in the ass!" Pedro helped himself to another swig and then put it away.

            "Want another ciggy?" Pedro took one and they went outside to the street, Noble moving towards the volleyball court.

            "Yeah, okay I'll show you where there might be one. It's the same landlady I had that's all. I guess it's okay if I see her." Past unresolved business.

            An old woman with two teeth greeted them kindly, speaking in indecipherable Spanish. She nodded and then led them upstairs to a thirty-foot balcony and a private apartment, snug but with a bathroom and kitchen. Noble started to laugh when he saw it.

            "I guess there isn't a fridge or stove?"

            "Ah no problem bro, I know where to get some stuff really cheap. At the black market. You know where it is?"

            "I've heard of it but never been able to find it."

            ‘It's hard to find, that's why!" Laughter and fumes of diesel.

            "And the rent here is?" Pedro engaged the landlady.

            "A hundred. Pretty decent for a hundred bro. Great view. And private. I know where you could pick up a table and chairs and a bed. No probs." Noble struggled not to break out laughing. He would have paid four hundred a month just for the view. It was magical and totally private, a source of never-ending inspiration and awe. He didn't even want to think about it. He knew he wanted to inhabit this spot. It was if he had seen the view before in a dream.

            Downstairs at the small general store the landlady ran he paid the first two month's rent, giving her cash. She appeared overwhelmed at all the money. Noble said he would move in tomorrow.

            "She'll clean it up today she said," Pedro translated. "And dude, if you want we can go to the market. If I buy them they'll give me cheaper prices because I'm not a gringo. Come on, I'll show you. But let me do the talking. You keep walking as if you're not with me. Cool?" It was a great deal. They grabbed a table and chairs, blankets and a hotplate. Pedro insisted on giving him his spare mattress because he wanted to clear out his second room. In an hour he was all set up. Dumping them off at the apartment, he and Pedro settled down with beer and food and bought some crack from his dealer. It was good crack but extremely expensive for the amount. Noble knew he could cook all he wanted in his new apartment. Couldn't wait to have his private Idaho.

 
 

Table of Contents

  1. The Divine Elbow
  2. Just Surviving As Noble Intent
  3. Surpassing Neophobia
  4. The Middle of the World
  5. The Dane
  6. The Religion of Sfauism
  7. Celebrating Chemistry
  8. Connected Columbians
  9. Stuntmen and Dakar Motorcycle Groupies
  10. Into Amazon Waters
  11. A Beautiful Repressive Niche
  12. Canalazo de Naranilla
  13. Cajunes el grande
  14. A Noble Doppelgänger
  15. Reno Finds His Footing
  16. How to Make a Bomb Out of a Light Bulb
  17. The Impossible Black Lily
  18. The Boy Fascist
  19. Artistas
  20. The Art of Death
  21. The Earthquake Virgin
  22. Lambaster of Laughter
  23. The Sweet Cadence of Scheudenfreunden
  24. Matador: the Agent of Destiny
  25. Overfilling
  26. Mobile Piping
  27. Aristotle’s Character Years
  28. The Great Pilgrimage
  29. A Purpose for Your Sins
  30. Errol Flynn
  31. The Better Man
  32. The Addict’s Ladder
  33. The African Club
  34. The Dutch Hair Piece
  35. The Swiss Army Knife
  36. The Scent of Ammonia
  37. At the Mouth of the Amazon
  38. Broken and Renewed
  39. Seizing the Moment
  40. A Recent Past Discovered
  41. Pinned and Threatened by Fate
  42. Twice as Much in Half the Time
  43. The Assassination
  44. The Pledge
  45. Slandering Hamlet
  46. Stealing Time
  47. Hannibal at the Gates
  48. On the Old Contraband Trail

                  Epilogue

 

 
 

 

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