Foreword. The preceding four volumes of Bile bring us up to about March of 2001. Back then, I was training a Marine Reserves Rifle Company in Bossier City, Louisiana as the active duty "inspector-instructor". My company had been mobilized about two months after the 9-11 attacks, and were securing the fenceline at Guantanamo Bay, Cuba. So, you can guess that I was not doing just a whole lot, with my reserve Marines out in Cuba. Well, my boss at the time made the decision to send me and my training chief to Bridgeport, California (way up in the mountains, close to Reno, NV) with a few other battalion staff members from Houston, to do advance planning for the companies that had yet to be mobilized. What followed is a legendary story.
I got back from this little trip and immediately started typing. I had just read Hell's Angels: The Strange and Terrible Saga of the Outlaw Motorcycle Gangs, by Hunter S. Thompson, so I decided to attempt something similar in tone. About a year after I wrote this I finally watched Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, and was relatively pleased at my effort.
This was released as a serial, in seven parts. I will remain true to that here, and post a chapter a day. Enjoy.
IntroductionIt began, as it often has throughout my Marine Corps career, as a simple TAD trip, a planning conference aboard the quiet little base of MWTC, Bridgeport, CA. It turned into some sort of Tolkeinesque journey to the land of fucking Mordor, 'cept I didn't have a ring, a sword, or hairy fucking feet, Chief looked nothing like Gandalf, and the Nazgul weren't warriors with fiery swords, they were fucking Blackjack dealers.
Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you:
Fear and Loathing in Bridgeport
Part One: Vegas to Beatty
0730, 13 March. On the Plane at Shreveport Regional.
I'm here on the plane, and my ass is killing me from the body cavity search that I received from an overweight middle-aged security guard named Wanda at Shreveport Regional Airport. Wanda loves her job. I regret commenting on her choice of hair color. I think she scratched my fucking tonsils. The stewardess asked why I keep standing in the aisle, so I keep telling her that I ran a marathon and my legs are tight. It's bullshit and we both know it, but she's polite enough to ignore the pool of blood at my feet, and has just asked me to stand next to the rear restroom so the crew chief doesn't get pissed at her and tell her to make me sit. I really appreciate it, I almost passed out during takeoff. If they make me sit down, Gunny Boynton'll have to carry me through the Houston Airport.
Gunny. Jesus, talk about anti-social. Some old-woman asked him if he was in the Navy and Guns put her in an arm bar. We had ten National Guardsmen covering us with their little M-4s, but Guns wouldn't let her up until she sung the first verse of the Hymn. It was kind of funny until Boynton rabbit punched her when she screwed up and sang "from the Shores of Montezuma, and the Halls of Tripoli". I mean shit, it was close enough for me, but Boynton kept yelling about "ungrateful fucks" and "not lowering standards". She eventually got it right, but I don't think she'll ever pitch in the major leagues again. I spoke with the Nasty Guard Lieutenant about it, but he didn't seem to follow what I was saying. As a matter of fact, he never actually answered anything I said. He just kept on about NASCAR, and drooling between his three front teeth. I expect to hear about the whole thing later. I told him my name was LtCol James J Buckley, and the guy beating up the old lady was MSgt Greg Treacy. He didn't ID me, and I wasn't offering any other information. I mentioned something about his needing to get his boys some hot chow, and got on the plane.
1200 13 March. Las Vegas, Nevada.
Guns is at it again. Some idiot walked by him and said "Hoo-Aah", and Boynton started a line training demo on the guy. He got through most of line 1 before the guy passed out completely. The guy's nose is pretty much gone, and his neck doesn't look quite right. We got here two hours before battalion is due in, and we found one of the airport bars as soon as we figured that out. I've had about three Jamesons and smoked four of Boynton's cigarettes once I rumaged through my carry-on baggage and realized that I'd left my pipe in Bossier. Boynton and I roundly cussed the bartender after she charged Gunny five bucks for a fresh pack. She protested that it wasn't her fault right before Gunny got her a good one with an open handed slap as he yelled something about "taking responsibility for one's actions". I feel like that Security Guard in Shreveport left her wrist watch up my backside. It'll be good when Maj V gets here and rents us a fucking truck. These folks are completely ignoring Boynton's abuse of this guy, I just told 'em that Boynton was a pimp and the guy tried to skip out on one of his whores without paying. The National Guard troops immediately apologized and wished us a good day, but the bartender still looks pretty pissed about the slap. I gotta remember to get Chief Hines to medicate Gunny before travel.
1300 13 March. Las Vegas, Nevada.
Four more whiskeys and I can bearly shee shtraigt. That fuckking guard defiinnately left something up there. Been flatulayting conshtantly for the last thirrteeeen minutes. Everyone else besiides me and thuh Gunnny have left the playsh. He's pissed 'caush I shmoked another nine of his shiggerettes. HA, I shaid shiggerettes, that's fucking funny...........
1500 13 March. N US Highway 95, Nevada.
We found SSgt Kirk about twenty minutes after the last entry. He was humping the leg of some really big girl like a fucking Basset Hound. I think she kinda liked it. Guns poured some cold water on him while I hit him repeatedly on the nose with a newspaper until he backed off of her. He then showed me his new telescoping fishing rod that he wants to fish with in Bridgeport, but then couldn't get it collapsed right and stood in the middle of the airport yelling "you motherfucker" at it and spitting on it to lubricate the joint that wouldn't collapse. Everyone looked at us like we were fucking nuts. I explained that he was diabetic and stuffed some sugar cubes in his mouth. That seemed to satisfy everyone. Maj V, Top Mac, and Chief Cervantes showed up about 1330. Top walked around the airport naked to the waist until Visted asked him to put a shirt on. Chief just started playing slots. The Major had some Marine Corps emblem on every stich of clothing he had on. Which was cool; until some old guy asked Guns if the Major was in the Air Force and Guns stuffed him head first into a garbage can. We waited until the baggage showed up. Everyone found theirs, and we waited until 1430 for Chief to get through gambling. He won seven-hundred fucking dollars and we found him getting a blow job from some Mamasita in a bathroom stall. He finally got his luggage, and Maj V rented the truck.
Top is driving. Kirk and I asked in the Hertz parking lot if we could stop and take a leak before we got out of town, and Top assured us that he would. However, he put it on cruise control in the parking lot, and we haven't slowed past seventy-five since then. While watching the fear on the faces of the Japanese tourists trying to get out of our way was pretty cool, I had my doubts when the Las Vegas cops chased us down 95. I think they gave up when Kirk pulled the .8 gauge shotgun out of some secret compartment of his high-speed British day pack and shot out the front tires of the lead vehicle. Kirk has threatened the MSgt with castration ten times if he doesn't stop and let us piss and eat. Top keeps laughing this maniacal motherfucking laugh that sounds like it came off of that Stephen King movie "It", while he masturbates in the driver's seat. Major V keeps looking back and talking to us so he isn't forced to acknowledge Top's self-abuse. Kirk keeps looking for cops out the back window. I'm getting a headache from the airport booze. Plus, the need to urinate has brought on acute pain in the genetalia that feels like someone has hit me in the balls with a 120 volt cable. I'd piss in my spit bottle but it's half full and Kirk just stuffed a rag in the neck, lit it on fire, and threw it at a road sign.
1600 13 March. "The Burro" restaurant. Beatty, Nevada.
Kirk has found true love. After sniffing the hostess' butt, (a woman who has pierced every flat surface of her head and neck), he seems to have clearly made a connection. Apparently, butt-sniffing is actually a courting ritual in Western Nevada. She took our drink orders and demanded immediate payment. After ordering a rare '30's vintage bottle of Madeira, Maj V told me to pay the tab. When she brought the bottle, he took two swigs, threw it into the fireplace, and bought himself a Forty of Olde English. I didn't actually see that though. I was in the bathroom, pissing for thirty seven minutes. Kirk pissed for like thirty-nine minutes before he left in tears of absolute joy. I was pretty happy m'self.
Between the bathroom and the table we found Chief on the Slots. He had just won four-hundred more dollars and was on his ninth beer. Kirk and I rolled him over to the table and found Gunny beating some teen-age boy senseless with a plastic bottle of ranch dressing. Apparently the kid asked if he was a recruiter. Top let it go on for another minute before he tossed the kid behind the lunch counter and told Guns to have a seat. I asked Top to put on a shirt again, he grumbled, but he did at least get dressed. Major V is making eyes with the she-male at the next table. Kirk apparently did not approve of the fact that the hostess had actually pierced her eye-lids; so he's left her alone and is working on the two pounds of raw hamburger that he ordered. My steak is roughly the weight and volume of a human head. I've had almost a six-pack waiting for my food, and my hangover has disappeared. The wristwatch up my ass just beeped on the hour. Hopefully, once I get this beef hindquarter consumed, I can pass that thing, 'cause I know it's gonna keep me awake tonight.
Immundus saecula saeculorum,
Fear and Loathing in Bridgeport Part Two