The Most Dangerous Road

Ani fled Nicaragua in the ‘80s.

Anastasio "Tachito" Somoza Debayle, a dictator with a cute nickname

In 1979, the Sandinista National Liberation Front (FSLN) ousted corrupt dictator-playboy Anastasio Somoza and installed their revolutionary government.

Peace at last, am I right?

Nope.

The Contras loyal to Somoza didn’t like the “Marxist” Sandinistas (backed by Cuba and the USSR), and neither did Mr. America Ronnie Reagan, so the Contras bombed the shit out of their own country with secret funding from the land of the free and the home of the brave.

Reagonomics mastermind and big fan of the rich sold weapons to Iran to fund his buddies in Nicaragua

Shockingly, no one cared how many Nicaraguans were caught in the crossfire. There were bigger, richer men embroiled in a Cold War. Communism vs. Democracy. The Whopper and the Big Mac fighting for Nicaraguan taste buds. The tragedy is it all pretty much tastes the same.

I’m trying to simplify something that’s incredibly complicated… just understand that Nicaragua in the ‘80s was a total shit show

Not a great place or time to raise three teenage daughters…

So Ani’s father spent his life savings smuggling his girls north to Tijuana where they crossed the border into the great state of California.

Of course, by the time Mr. Coyote unchained the boxcar doors on the back of the freight car, every last córdoba Ani’s father had ground out of life was gone. Mr. Coyote hadn’t gotten into the people smuggling biz for the feels, so he demanded payment to “guide” the sisters to freedom on a treacherous journey through the San Ysidro Mountains.

He always knew the only currency left was the rest of their lives.

Next time I go into a tizzy waiting for the Monorail, I’ll remember this

So the sisters were divvied up, and Ani’s new masters sent her north to Las Vegas to work as an indentured servant cleaning toilets. Somewhere in there, she met the man of her dreams. I don’t know much (and I don’t ask), but he was an alcoholic and physically abusive… but in that dark chaos, there was a little light.

A daughter.

Gracie… Grace.

It was five-year-old Gracie who found that wonderful egg.

In a dumpster.

Outside a hotel run by vampires.

They work with me now and do much, much more…

…than clean toilets.

JS

PS -- The man of her dreams is in the ground

PPS -- Still working on Mr. Coyote

Ani

I caught them digging through a dumpster behind the hotel.

Good help is hard to find

Not a particularly uncommon sight that day except she had just found an egg.

A whole one.

Actually, it was the little girl who found it. Thrusting her prize in the air with statuesque triumph. The joy on their faces. I almost forgot they were knee deep in fast food, beer bottles, and butt wipes.

This was fifteen years ago… I think.

Doesn’t matter.

Back then, I did one of two things: forgot them instantly or, more likely, called Khalil and had them both bagged and shipped off to the farm.

But that little girl with the egg. That ear-to-ear grin.

I paused…

Just long enough.

And that was the day I met Ani.

My future general.

JS

Game Night

The dice hit the board and do more sliding than rolling. I’ve wiped them down a few times, but they’re still a bit sticky, and Sara hasn’t called a timeout in hours.

Sara’s Game Night isn’t very fair ‘cause the hungry house always wins

I mean, the game is rigged as it is, you could at least let the poor saps roll properly. Maybe even let them win one. Give ‘em the hope that they’re getting out of this alive.

In my day, there was no internet or television. And you can only drink and whore so many nights in a row before you succumb to syphilis or liver failure… so as we do today, we played games to pass the time and try to forget we’ve all got one foot in the grave.

16th century guy to girl, "Play cards and chill?”

16th century game night didn’t include Cards Against Humanity (that would get you drawn and quartered), the French hadn’t stopped drinking long enough to invent charades, and the crude technology behind the red buzzer in Operation would most certainly have been considered witchcraft in addition to being extremely annoying. We played chess, and tables, and cards, and we rolled endless dice.

I still play chess with Stroth on occasion, but it’s not as fun when you have to let the boss win. If I want dice or cards, I just walk downstairs.

Sara prefers board games. She loves Monopoly, Life, Stratego, Jenga, and yes… Operation.

It’s a little passed 3. Two of them are dead… I think. She bled them both pretty good during Monopoly. First guy tried to buy Boardwalk… big mistake. The second wouldn’t leave jail because Sara owned most of the properties. I thought it was a smart play.

If this wasn’t so gruesome I might laugh. Stripper sitting Indian style, covered in warm gore and pieces of masticated flesh. Stacks of Milton Bradley games off to one side. Johnny Cash sings about the epic showdown between the Baron and Billy Joe. And two naked, lifeless Ed Hardies chained to the floor with bloody Monopoly money caked to their bodies. A third, Primo Ed Hardy, grips a teeny pair of tweezers as he tries to remove the Funny Bone for $200. Success might buy him a few more minutes of air in his lungs… or it might piss her off. I guess that’s what makes it fun.

He’s shaking. Shaking bad. Wraps a hand around his wrist. It helps a little.

Sara’s grinning like a teenager.

A bead of sweat slinks down one of his greasy locks. Hangs on the end and fattens until it’s too big to hold... even in that gel.

It plummets… hits his fingers and WHOOP!

Those tweezers go flying through the air, ricochet off the wall, and hit Sara…

Right in the boob.

She frowns.

Shit’s real quiet.

Primo Ed Hardy turns to me with an “I’m sorry please help me is she going to eat me” look. Maybe I’m getting soft. This’ll have to be delicate.

“It’s late, Sara. Maybe we should…”

Sara claps her hands and unveils a jolly grin of bloody fangs, “Battleship!”

Poor guy... he’s sunk.

JS

Barney

Sometimes I’ll meet a Baldwin, sometimes a baller…I even met a Kennedy back in ’72. But most of the time they look like this:

I love the smell of cheap cologne tossed in refried beans—said no female ever

I’m guessing he hit Taco Bell and half a dozen gorditas before dousing himself in a sexual cocktail of tequila shots, Axe, and Drakar Noir…when that fails to spring his lady trap, boys like him end up here…getting a private lap dance for 25 bucks…tipping optional.

I actually like performing on the main stage. I just pretend I’m doing yoga. You’d think it’d be an Olympic event by now with all the flipping and twirling, spinning and flexing.

Lap dances on the other hand…I can’t even. So much chafing. And this Barney has pit stains, too many buttons undone on his “going out” shirt…which by the way must it always be bedazzled? And are the colors designed to induce vertigo? Perhaps working in concert with the creepy, overly-intense eye contact...to what? Hypnotize me? So I’ll take off my g-string faster? Fall madly in love with him?

Worst of all, he’s riled up. Blood plumps his veins. So close to the surface…I just want to pop him like a Capri Sun.

But I use self-control like a good girl.

Tonight’s Game Night, and I’m just whetting my appetite...

S

I, Cometh

Have you ever seen Halley’s Comet? Isn't it amazing! Just look at it!!!!

This looks like someone pushing a finger through cellophane to me

We all know Halley's Comet because it’s the prodigal son. The handsomest, most-lauded-and-applauded, pampered-and-prodded prince of comets. It’s the super-duper male model from space that can do no wrong.

Scientifically speaking, it's a periodic, traveling passed Earth roughly every 76 years, and we all hope and pray that we can see this celestial god just once in our lifetime. Twice and we can say we meant something. Which means British astronomer Edmond Halley is the envy of the human race. He believed that the comets of 1456, 1531, 1607, and 1682 were actually one in the same, and it would return in 1758. He was right. And yet, by the time his eponymous comet reappeared as he had predicted, and bestowed immortality upon him…he was dead.

But Halley wasn’t the only mortal man to wrap his destiny around the beautiful, blue ion tail of said comet and ride its wake into the history books. In 1066, William the Conqueror (the Bastard) witnessed Halley streaking across the heavens and believed his ascendance to the English throne was by astrological design. Of course, he came to this egoistic conclusion only AFTER the Battle of Hastings and his status as the first Norman King of England was all but assured.

The comet was then sewn into the Bayeux Tapestry to commemorate the invasion and honor the bastard.

And here it looks like an STD discharge from a violent, infected penis

Chinggis Khaan gazed upon the comet in 1222 and adopted the poor, lost ice ball as his personal star. As it headed west, he mounted his space steed and carved a bloody path through Southeast Europe, dismounting periodically to make glorious whoopee and leave a Y-chromosome that still resides in 16 million Asian men. I’ve seen Halley’s Comet 6 times, but it didn’t inspire me to change the geographic and genetic borders of North America. Maybe 7th time’s a charm.

Halley has influenced artists as well as conquerors. In 1301, it’s arrival inspired Italian painter Giotto’s "The Adoration of the Magi." According to mankind, Halley was there for Baby Jesus. Mark Twain, the master of social satire, book-ended his time on Earth in conjunction with Halley’s perihelion. Born 2 weeks before it arrived in 1835, he predicted his own death upon it's return in 1910. He was a day off.

Okay, this really does look like a testicular wrecking ball in mid-backswing

Now let’s talk about Halley’s ugly, 3rd cousin from his Great Aunt Rita who married a colored man against her father’s wishes, dropped an “L” from the family name to distance herself further from her estranged, closed-minded family, added a hyphen because she was a strong woman who refused to be compromised by her husband’s surname, and moved to Tennessee.

This is Comet Hale-Bopp. Beautiful. No one gives a shit

On the night of July 23, 1995, TLC’s “Waterfalls” is at the top of the Billboard Charts and Alan Hale and Thomas Bopp (both amateur astronomers) simultaneously discover and take credit for the hyphenated bastard Comet Hale-Bopp. Bopp didn’t even own a telescope and was out that night with his friends stargazing (drinking) in Arizona when he caught a glimpse through his buddy’s scope. He sent a telegram (seriously) to the Central Bureau for Astronomical Telegrams (CBAT) and staked his claim. Unfortunately, Alan Hale was in New Mexico also stargazing (high) from his driveway that very same night. Hale had already joined the 20th century and sent 3 emails by the time Western Union delivered Bopp’s telegram.

Hale and Bopp split custody of their celestial baby and named it Hale-Bopp. The poor star child faced endless ridicule at the hands of elementary school attendance calls for years to come. After Hale-Bopp peaked in 1997, it disappeared, and nobody gave it a second thought. It’s too bad because Hale-Bopp was one of the brightest comets of the 20th century and visible for a record 18 months.

As a tragic post script, two legitimate scientists, Eugene and Carolyn Shoemaker were in Australia attempting to photograph Hale-Bopp when they were involved in a gruesome head on collision. Eugene died at the scene. His ashes, however, were sent to the moon along with a picture of Hale-Bopp (the comet, not the amateur astronomers).

So. Let’s check the scoreboard.

Halley’s Comet…Earth’s darling. Inspired the greatest conquerors and artists in history. A comet of destiny that changed the world and can change your fortune if you gaze upon this celestial luck dragon just once in your mortal or immortal lifetime, whichever the case may be.

Comet Hale-Bopp…forced to exist for eternity as a hyphenate at the hands of two amateur schleps, blamed for the murder of an astronomical legend, and forgotten by mankind.

If you’re still interested, Halley will be back on July 28, 2061 and Hale-Bopp a few thousand years later in 4385.

But really, they’re both just dusty snowballs orbiting the sun and could care less what we think or don’t think about them.

Where am I going with this. I really haven’t thought that through.

I’m trying to be like them.

Just keep rolling…

JS

Land that Time Forgot

The last hair-pin turn nearly expels the day-old turkey sandwich from my stomach after the centrifugal force slams 180-pound Denise and her 300-pound fiance into my gut.

This stomach-churning, lunch-raising road leads to Maui's old town of Hana - photocred Natgeo

The Road to Hana is over 3 hours and just under 65 miles of relentless, winding roads broken by brief respites to disembark and see the sites. We're packed like sardines, and this tour van is most certainly a death trap, but Mr. Ka'Uhane was just too positive for my liking, so I ditched him. I prefer to be crushed by overweight lovers on the eve of their nuptials.

In The Land That Time Forgot, the green forest drinks from pools of historic crimson

Unlike the Big Island and much of Maui, Hana remains mostly unsullied by civilization. In ancient times, this was a lush, endless paradise favored by royalty. Naturally, when too many rich babies want the same thing, they fight. For hundreds of years, the upper class waged countless, bloody wars over Hana and the islands themselves until King Kamehameha The Great knocked enough heads to unite them all by 1810.

This I learn not from our tour guide but during a Google session as I pause to settle my stomach before our hike. What Mr. Ka'Uhane lacked in conversational restraint, our "guide" Donny has in spades. He barely speaks, and yet his body language exudes a palpable disdain for the haole around him (which now that I type it out can easily be rejiggered to spell a-hole). I'm not sure what we're paying him for, but I appreciate the silence as well as the awkward tension it creates among our band of photo-snapping intruders. Unfortunately for Donny, our group still has questions. In particular, they want to know about this monstrosity...

Donny doesn't speak until we pause to admire this "strangler"

"Strangler fig," he says as he wraps his hands around an imaginary throat that I'm sure, in his mind, belongs to one of us. "The banyan seeds on a host tree then drops aerial roots into the soil. The roots around the trunk fuse together until they form a suffocating sheath. The stranger's foliage blocks sunlight from the host and its root system steals water. Eventually, the host dies and leaves a hollow banyan trunk of fused roots." Pause. "Some find them pretty."

"Sounds like Edward from Twilight," chuckles Wayne, Denise's chubby, soon-to-be hubby. Denise snorts as Wayne, Fat Wayne as I've named him in this moment, looks to the group for comedic backup. No one's with him. Least of all Donny.

"Yes. It's a foreign vampire from India...leeching off our native beauty since 1873."

Fat Wayne's grin fades as he takes Denise's hand and draws her close. Donny turns and heads up the trail without a word. I'm starting to like this guy. And I don't feel so bad. At least we won't be the first vampires in Hawaii.

I follow Donny deeper into the forest. A little pep in my step.

JS

Tourist Trap

"If there's one thing you must see...it's sunrise over Haleakalā," Mr. Ka'Uhane insists.

5:38 a.m. -- I watch as everyone scrambles to find the best place to Snapchat #nofilter

We have to be out the door by 2:30 a.m., as it's a two-hour drive just to get to the crater. Then another 45 minutes to reach the summit and an additional 15 or so to carve out some volcanic real estate and plant your tuchus. "Don't worry, I don't sleep," I tell him. "Just the type of hard-working man I want to do business with," he grins as he silly slaps me with a meaty paw. No seriously. I don't sleep. But let him think what he wants.

6:04 a.m. -- I wish my boss was here right now

As the sun rises, Mr. Ka'Uhane drops some Lonely Planet on me. I nod. Even widen my eyes for him a few times. “Haleakalā means ‘house of the sun,’ and here at 10,000 feet above sea level, you can see why. Dormant but by no means extinct, Haleakalā erupts every 200-500 years...with the last volcanic activity occurring sometime during the 17th century.”

After doing some quick math, I ask Mr. Ka’Uhane if Maui is “due.” Perhaps I look a bit too hopeful because my guide and future business partner drops the shtick and turns back to the vista. “Let’s watch the sunrise, shall we?”

6:23 a.m. -- All I can see is good vs. evil and the tourist just out of frame to the right

As I watch the crater fill with boiling clouds pierced by shafts of ancient light, my mind turns...not as quickly as the gal spinning like a top at the edge of the precipice while her bff snaps her iPhone like a machine gun...but turns nonetheless.

A daytime eruption. There’s nowhere to hide. They can’t run because the sun will find them. If they stay, the lava will find them. An orgy of images copulates inside my head. Screaming vampires slathered in molten lava and choking on volcanic ash. Others flee towards the exits only to burst into flames as they’re bombarded by sunlight...

And just as I begin to smile, I hear the strum of a guitar. A group of tourists, wrapped in blankets, clink their champagne glasses as the charming one sings “Tiny Bubbles.”

C’mon Haleakalā…we need ya.

JS

Vegas by the Sea

It's been 7 months since my last entry. No, I wasn't in Hawaii for 7 months. Only 7 days. Shacked up at this tropical gem. Take away the water, and it's pretty much Sanctus.

I spent some of my days poolside with Mr. Ka'Uhane

So why the lapse? I have a job just like you that sucks up my time and life force. But I'm getting out of the vampire lackey business and making a lateral move into the burgeoning industry of bloodsucker genocide. It's a startup, and we have one employee. Maybe I should try Kickstarter.

I'm getting off track. My job was to make contact with a possible sister hotel here in Maui and gauge its interest in merging under our dark umbrella. The gifted suitcase of $100 bills did most of the talking, but I'd like to think my charm helped sell Mr. Ka'Uhane, who's name ironically means "soul or spirit," on the idea of making this verdant paradise even greener. I didn't have the heart to tell him that if this joint venture actually goes through, he'll never see green again. At least not in daylight.

Side note: sunbathing is a real waste of time. I left just as pale as when I arrived. I'm sure I looked like a corpse. One of the down sides to regeneration.

JS

Aloha

Safest I've felt in centuries.

The wild blue yonder.

I'm about 45,000 feet in the air. I don't know if I am but all I see are clouds and Google says that's how high planes fly. Googling is one of the million ways I distract myself. I'd google Google, but I don't want to open a worm hole. This world is frightening enough. Which is why I love flying. No one can get to you here unless you pay for internet. But eventually, it's wheels down for everyone.

I'm flying to Hawaii. Not for a tan. Not to drink out of a coconut. And not to get away (although I wanna). I'm here on business. You see, Sanctus wants to...expand. Become a chain. Like McDonalds. Except we won't be making burgers. The idea is the meat patties come to us.

So I'll be landing in a few hours and pay a visit to a possible sister hotel. Feel 'em out. Pitch 'em the idea. See if they're open to joining a highly-profitable blood cult.

"Hang loose from a noose." That's not a great slogan, but it's a start...

JS

Skin You

She sings as she rocks him back and forth.

Vet thought it was a UTI, but it's cancer...again. That's like your doc telling you it's just a headache and then saying, "Oh yeah, sorry, I forgot you're decapitated."

Bittens lost his arm to cancer.

They cut him up and stapled him back together, but he's cancer-free today. Sara and Bittens are celebrating. They look happy, but she keeps singing, "Skin you and wear you 'round my neck." God forbid she show kindness without threatening to turn your hide into a shawl.

Anyway, they're back together again. Frankenkitty and the vampire. It's about as cute as wiping your butt with poison ivy.

Gives me the creeps.

JS