TALES FROM THE OLD STASH
Jack Wesley Hardin’s
MEXICAN SWEAT
(a smuggler’s memoir) #5

A bright explosion of white light burst all around and through me, then beginning with my birth itself, rapidly began to chronologically run my life through the old mind projector. But before I could grab hold of the tit and suck it and ride it into some sort of nourishing understanding of man’s rites of passage, my life abruptly ended at potty training. Then faded to complete darkness as I strained to drop my first bomb on the target.

That brief peace was shattered by what my addled brain thought was the babble of Chinamen gone mad. My next thought was God must be a Chinese waiter. Why, I’ll never know, but while contemplating if I had ever pissed off any Chinese waiters, my eyes opened, and just like that the screaming chorus of Chinese waiters turned out to be a nervous group of high falsetto Mexican Federales, punctuated by the quacking of Dirty Duck.

The khaki clad troops were pointing their American made M-16 rifles at my balls. That realization leapfrogged me back to a most unpleasant take on reality. I was laying flat on the ground, with the Duck down there in the dirt next to me, drooling on my shoulder like a baby. He was clutching the plane’s broken yoke in his left hand, with a crumpled a cigarette butt in the right. Now, I thought, if I can just recall how we got to Oz I might be able to get us out of here. But before that dangling solution could materialize inside my projection room, an explosion twisted me off my butt into some kind of fetal ball, as it threw dirt and flaming airplane parts up in the sky like metal spitballs exploding out of a homemade Zip Gattling Gun.

Wiping dirt and sand out of my eyes as I uncurled my spine, I looked up at one of the wings completely engulfed in flames, about a hundred feet overhead! A beautiful and captivating sight if I ever saw one, but then it began dropping down out of the sky on the Duck and me. Instinctively, without even thinking We’re going to die NOW, I was diving-tumbling-rolling the bones for all I was worth, and amazingly managed to grab the Duck by the corner of his still foaming mouth like the fluke bounce of a loose fumble, and yanked him with me out of bounds of harm’s way.

The Federales had vanished by this time; only their fiery rifles and a full bottle of Jose Cuervo still suspended in air were evidence of their existence, before gravity took over, exploding cartridges from the burning rifles, scattering dozens of lead slugs in all directions. It sounded like a hundred Viagra driven bees on a one-day pollen gathering gangbang.
Suddenly a sharp pain in my head canceled all further social events from my busy calendar and brought on my old friend Darkness again, without even a hint of a Simon & Garfunkle soundtrack to romanticize the abyss lurking in the background.

I was still deciphering the symbolism of the lives I was dreaming when I was brought back to consciousness by either the sound of paper rubbing against paper, as in paper money being counted, or the smell of sweaty old boots, which to me was the same smell as American treasury paper. Bulk gringo paper money always has the scent of the old boot to it in my nostrils. Which is why you can stash around seventy-five thousand in hundreds in a pair of soft leather cowboy boots before airport security ever gets nosey.

As you’ve seen, opening my eyes too fast can be a dangerous proposition. This time, a middle aged Mexican Captain and several soldiers were sitting at a wooden table in front of a rusty groaning ancient RCA air conditioner, pumping out ancient cigarette fumes, counting my money!

There was no evidence of whether it was night or day as the single window in the room was covered in aluminum foil. A bare bulb in a wooden lamp reflected off it. The Captain saw me moving and sprung to my side forcing a tequila bottle into my mouth and making it bubble like a drowning Salmon trying to give head to its own tail.

“There-there, Senor Hardin, ease the pain with our blessed Nopal Nectar,” the somewhat familiar voice of el Capatain scraped against the funky blackboard of what was left of my even funkier mind.

Blinking in and out of consciousness, I tried to reach for my money before I was even in waking reality, but was assured by the Captain as I squeezed myself back to the present through a hatch of alternate reality that my hundred thousand was still there.

I sat straight up and asked, “You mean my hundred and twenty, don’t you, Captain?”

“Si, Senor Hardin, but some of it unfortunately burned up in the fire, though I assure you, we did our best to save it.”

“Yeah, I’m sure you did.” There would be a time and a place to thank the Captain properly and get a recount, I thought, but this was definitely not it.

The big shit-eating-grin on his ugly scar infested face went on and on like a roadmap to nowhere you wanted to get to, apologizing over and over for trying to kill us yesterday. So I assumed I had missed only one day of consciousness. While the obsequious turd kept trying to explain that what happened happened because my stubborn mule Gordo had not been on the receiving end of the non-stop train from Nogales to Hermissilo that he was expected on, I reached up and felt a gauze blood soaked bandage around my forehead, and since I couldn’t believe the story I was hearing out of his lips, checked to see if both my ears were still attached to my head.

It seems like the General in-charge had felt betrayed by Gordo not showing up with his payoff. Betrayed enough to order the Captain to open fire on us because the promised first deposit to insure the Kid’s safe return had never arrived with my missing mule, and thus, could not be donated to el Generalissimo’s fresh air fund to feed the homeless children who would slit your fucking throat on the road to Hell, just for the Hell of it, if you crossed him. Thus, we were considered persona non gratis, or dead fucks flying, by the General, who for all practical and impractical purposes was considered a God in these parts. A God, who was, in short, very goddamn upset, not to dwell on normally being a very drunk and vengeful scumbag God to begin with, who was certain in the wisdom of his genius paranoia, somewhere-between-here-and-there, we had switched religions on him. Without a second thought — matter of fact, without a first thought — he then ordered that our double-crossing asses be excommunicated from his church of Pay Now Pay Later Pay Up Or Else before we had a chance to offend his eyes and ears with our presence and explanations. Now sober, he was a changed hombre and I was still somewhat alive, though no more clued-in on the particulars of how the deal had gone south than I was before I was told the details of Gordo’s latest fuckup.

Though the General, like all Gods, was never wrong, in the magnificent wisdom of his sobriety, he offered to give us another plane and a ten dollar a pound discount. That came out to be $15,000. Not a bad figure for the pre-W south of the border era.

I grabbed the bottle, and, in toast to his beneficence, rinsed my teeth, minus the one knocked out in the crash. In those days, $15,000 could fix a lot of things, even if they really weren’t broken, much less if they were.

While I checked myself to see if there were other body parts missing, the Captain filled in details on exactly why we had been shot down: It seems that while making their routine graft filled rounds, his soldiers had found my trusted slob Gordo at a whorehouse a mile from where he had paid the train engineer to slow down so he could jump off. Obviously Gordo hadn’t bothered to work out the second half of his plan before he executed the first, forgetting that his lard ass had to jump back on the train after getting his dose of punocho. Naturally, he was no match for catching a seventy-mile-an-hour train, even if it was only breaking 20 coming around the bend, much less swinging that lard ass back inside on a car ladder as if he were some kind of latter-day-Zorro, instead of the X-rated version of the Cisco Kid’s jubilant fatassed-fuckup Poncho. The Captain’s troops were holding him, or more likely Gordo was holding them, at the whorehouse of record.

By this time, Dirty Duck was recovering with several senoritas at the Corborca Hilton, buried snout first in a replacement bottle full of white snow to resurrect his wounded spirits. Give him a toot or two and he was indestructible.

Just then a young baby faced soldier approached the Captain and handed him a piece of paper. Reading it slowly, the Captain stared at me with amazement, then reached out and embraced me. “Why did you not tell me Colonel Manzanares was your half brother? “

This was news to me, but not something I couldn’t account for. “Because our Father was a dog,” I laughed, “we have so many half brothers running around we don’t like to count them except at family reunions”

The Captain belly-laughed. “I know what you mean, senor.”

“I’m sure you do, amigo. I’m sure you do.”

When you get right down to it, we’d all been fucked around so many times we were all brothers with different mothers in the same bastard family, whether we liked it or not. For the next couple of hours, my new brother and I could hardly stop laughing as we formulated our plans for the next several days. The Captain and I would travel to the government warehouse in Corborca, where I would select 3,000 pounds of choice green bud, then wrap it in large burlap bags and weigh it for transport, after subtracting the paper and burlap weight. Each burlap bag held between 25 to 40 bricks, each brick weighing around 2 pounds. If stacked neatly into the bags, one man could handle 50 to 80 pounds. Unloading had to be fast and smooth. One of the major advantages of burlap bags was if-push-came-to-shove they could survive being thrown out the door of a 180 mile-per-hour plane without ripping open.

Fuel, of course, would be waiting for us. In 55 gallon drums, connected to a hand pump. We always carried a cheese cloth to strain the gas through before we put it into our wing tanks. Any impurity, and I’m including good ole H-2-O, could stop an airplane engine in flight dead-in-its-tracks in about one second flat. Carrying a thousand pounds at 180 mph at under 500 feet with an instant stoppage of your power plant meant you had just about enough time for one last snort before your ass hit the ground and drove your head down and out through your expanded blow hole, or you were smashed by a ton of Mexican green that instantly caught up with your shit covered face, before flattening the rest of your body like a stack of flapjacks, driving them out through the newly sliced slot in your forehead, or the dashboard, whichever came first.

It was at this point, the good Captain and I decided to get our finances straight. He even kicked-in two soldiers and a Jeep to get me back to the border. As soon as I got back, there was unfinished business I had to take care of in the name of Billy the Kid, if he was still alive.

To Be Continued…

#4 @ http://smokesignalsmag.com/7/?p=2286

#3 @ http://smokesignalsmag.com/7/?p=2090

#2 @ http://smokesignalsmag.com/7/?p=1340

#1 @ http://smokesignalsmag.com/7/?p=10

 

Jack Wesley Hardin is the nom de plume for a legendary Private Investigator involved in some of the biggest and most controversial high profile criminal and civil cases in the United States. A television series is presently being developed based on his exploits and involvement in those cases. A one time college football star, gonzo NFL linebacker, Green Beret, soldier of fortune, and hippie John Wayne on the Mexican side of the law (in the good ole days of his spent youth), Mexican Sweat (the anatomy of a dope deal) is a memoir from those early years that will be serialized in Smoke Signals. Stay tuned.

 

Leave a Reply

At last a Smoke Signals NO BRAINER
MACACA SPEAKS
MAKE FRAGMERICA GREAT AGAIN
THE BRAND ON TRUMP’S BIG FUCKING WALL

Truly, we’re fucked if we can’t call off and reschedule this whole lose-lose election the failed two-party-system has stuck us with in order to keep control of the country. In order to change things it's going to take a plan that bars anyone who ran for POTUS in this election and replaces them with... »

Jack Wesley Hardin’s
THE ONE THAT GET AWAY

If you unlucky enough to be out in the soup tonight, baby, you don’t have to be told this toxic brew of critics and crucifiers alike is not pissin’ chicken soup for the soul down on us. All you gotta do is watch the waves of rage exploding out over the high bluffs above... »

an Octoberfest hors d’oeuvre
I AM FIFI

I am FiFi (not my real name), the French maid sex slave of two beautiful, brilliant, strong Amazon Lesbians. And though they tell me I am badly flunking the French part of my maid, What, Dear Vibrator, I must ask, is the correlation between pain and sexual excitement? Am I a sickness? »

A SHORT UPDATED HISTORY OF THE EVER POPULAR BELIEF IN MAGIC

As she obliviously barked on, I looked out the corner of my eye to see if everyone was staring at us. But they were totally frozen in time. I mean, they were all completely stuck in mid chew, or suck, as they case may be -- trapped in the unconscious flytrap of our... »

Joey Amdahl’s
The Big Dumb Nothing
fiction from MODERN (you call this) LIVING

See my thirty-five-year-old boss Betty Allen standing at the door of the club. She scratches at an itch that’s under her tight black skirt and her hand yanks up her fish net stocking at the knee. . A tattoo of a zombie geisha fills up her entire upper arm. The tattoo goes against..... »

The 49th Anniversary of having to ask
WHO KILLED JFK, MLK & RFK

Though they probably don't have the balls to do it, the best opportunity Trump will ever have to be trusted by the great majority of Americans would be by using MLK's 86th birthday to name who’s really responsible for the assassinations of JFK-MLK- RFK, before bad-politics-as-usual buries the truth again forever… »

Charles Bukowski's
Six Inches

Sarah picked me up and placed me down between her legs, which she spread open just a bit. Then I was facing a forest of hair. I hardened my back and neck muscles, sensing what was to come. I was jammed into darkness and stench. I heard Sarah moan. Then Sarah began to move me slowly back and forth. As I said, the stench was unbearable, and it was difficult to breathe, but somehow there was air in there—various side-pockets and drafts of oxygen. Now and then my head, the top of my head bumped The Man in the Boat and then Sarah would let out an extra-illuminated moan. Sarah began moving me faster and faster »

an excerpt from John Goodman’s
MINGUS SPEAKS
Avant-Garde and Tradition
Photograph by Robert Frank

I don't want to be so junglish that I can't climb a stairway. I got to climb mountains all day long? We're going to the moon, right? Well, I'm with the guys that wrote music that got us to the moon. Not the guys who dreamed about it. Bach built the buildings, we didn't... »

Excerpts from
THE LAST INTERVIEW WITH JAMES EARL RAY
A Counter Myth
from Mike Golden’s
BEEN TO THE MOUNTAINTOP, WENT OVER THE EDGE

Sad to Say, if you ask any graduating class today who James Earl Ray was, less than 10% of those over-priced diplomas would know the confessed, then-unconfessed, alleged-assassin of Dr. Martin Luther King was indisputably one of the three biggest hand-picked-stooges in history, along with Curly Larry Sirhan and Mo Harvey Oswald... »


A Thanksgiving Prayer from William Burroughs

Thanks for the wild turkey and passenger pigeons destined to be shit out through wholesome American guts... Thanks for vast herds of bisons... Thanks for bounties on wolves and coyotes...Thanks for a nation of finks... »

Victor Harwood’s
THE WRITERS’ CONFERENCE
excerpted from his novel
TO DIE IN MADRID

That Saturday night Malraux and I sat side-by-side, facing the room, watching the crowd flow in and out in waves as it passed through the Dingo, quick to find out what was doing in the Quarter, savor a Jimmy Charters Gin Fizz and head off for dinner at the Brassarie Lipp or the Dôme... »

Now entering the 50th year of having to ask
WHO KILLED MLK
HERE’S A CONVERSATION
WITH PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR WILD BILLY HICKS


“I’d rather be dead than afraid,” the spirit said to Hicks It was Dr. King’s mantra, but all Wild Billy saw was a poor lost soul who didn’t know he was dead. “I never felt so small as when I realized it was my job to inform Dr. King’s spirit his body was gone »

DARIUS JAMES
DR. SNAKESKIN SPEAKS


BOYS TOWN
They took their beer from the bar to a table in the back, and then Johnson started talking about whore houses it had been his distinct pleasure to know. Like shortstops or writers, there was a rating system."There was a place in Jersey. In Wildwood. A grand old House, for its... »


THE NATIONAL PASTIME
Die for it or live for it, it always comes down to whether you go for what looks most inviting in the moment or wait for what you're lookin' for. Call it Yes or call it No, to swing or not to swing appears to be the only room left to move in... »

What's Happening In:

Little Rock - Arkansas Times
Buffalo - Artvoice
Athens, OH
The Athens NEWS
Austin, TX - Austin Chronicle
Baltimore - Baltimore City Paper
Birmingham - Birmingham Weekly
Black & White
Boise
Boise Weekly
Boston
Boston Phoenix
Boston's Weekly Dig
Boulder - Boulder Weekly
Charlottsville, VA - C-Ville Weekly
Chicago
Chicago Newcity
Chicago Reader
Chico
Chico News & Review
Cincinnati - Cincinnati CityBeat
Rochester - City Newspaper
Minneapolis - City Pages (Twin Cities)
Lansing - City Pulse
Des Moines - Cityview
Halifax, NS - The Coast
Colorado Springs - Colorado Springs Independent
Columbia, SC - Columbia Free Times
Atlanta - Creative Loafing (Atlanta)
Charlotte, NC - Creative Loafing (Charlotte)
Sarasota, FL - Creative Loafing (Sarasota)
Tampa, FL - Creative Loafing (Tampa)
Dallas - Dallas Observer
Dayton - Dayton City Paper
Oakland - East Bay Express
Hermosa Beach, CA - Easy Reader
Eugene, OR - Eugene Weekly
New Haven - Fairfield County Weekly
Calgary, AB - Fast Forward Weekly
Athens, GA - Flagpole Magazine
Jacksonville, FL - Folio Weekly
Fort Worth, TX - Fort Worth Weekly
New Orleans - Gambit
Vancouver, BC - The Georgia Straight
Hartford, CT - Hartford Advocate
Honolulu - Honolulu Weekly
Houston - Houston Press
Springfield, IL - Illinois Times
Durham, NC - Independent Weekly (NC)
Corona, CA - Inland Empire Weekly
Madison, WI - Isthmus
Ithica, NY - Ithaca Times
Jackson, MS - Jackson Free Press
Los Angeles - L.A. Weekly
Las Vegas - Las Vegas CityLife
Las Vegas Weekly
Louisville, KY - LEO Weekly
Long Island, NY - Long Island Press
Maui, HI - Maui Time Weekly
Memphis - The Memphis Flyer
Knoxville - Metro Pulse
San Jose - Metroactive

Great Moments in Sportz
Fear & Loathing @ The Kentucky Derby



RALPH STEADMAN remembers meeting HUNTER S. THOMPSON: I heard a quick hiss from the spray can Hunter was brandishing. He had Maced me again!...

HUNTER meets RALPH: Another problem was his habit of sketching people he met in the various social situations I dragged him into--then giving them the sketches. »

Mike Golden’s
Inside Outsourcing
Even if eating it is not exactly their thing they always have the option to use it as a dildo made exclusively for them personally by white trash fashionistas from the south of France collection, Dominique, would you like a tattoo of your face on your ass, dear, while you’re waiting for the designer to take measurements we can use to fit your soul into a gift package? »
Although Tuli was dubbed “the Noel Coward of Bohemia” by his friend co-founding Fug Ed Sanders, I always thought of the multidextrous humanist-humorist as “the Tom Paine of standup protest performance art”, but no matter what handle any of us pin on him it’s safe to say he has probably subliminally influenced more underground writer-poet-artist-publishers than any other Boho to come down the page this century. »

WAA!!
WHAT AN ASSHOLE!


painting collage of UBU, THE DECIDER by aka
Fred Wistow introduces Malcolm Gladwell

Max Blagg Commercial



  • 1965 collage by d.a. levy

  • Before you leave...
    visit Lally's Alley
    for daily updates
  • Visit Richard Cummings'
    The Fire Insider

    for daily updates
    Dick Lit
    Missionary Positions
    fiction by Joe Maynard

    Painting by Peter Cross

    "dick lit" is here to acknowledge the good, bad and ugly that goes with it, as it celebrates every young boy's quest to get off the next time, and every old man's quest to get off one more time, before there is no time left to get off on... »

    THE BEATS:
    REMEMBERING THE TEA
    an excerpt from Ellen Pearlman’s
    NOTHING & EVERYTHING

    Nothing and Everything is about the relationship of Eastern thought, particularly Buddhism, to the arts in post-war New York City —from the early 1940s to the early1960s—a handful of individuals brought about major changes in music, performance, dance, theater, installation, video, mixed media, painting, and sculpture, as the evolution from modernism to postmodernism broke down the idea of art as a practice devoted to a particular medium. The world—or life itself—became a legitimate artist’s tool, aligning with Zen Buddhism’s emphasis on enlightenment occurring at any moment.... »


    A Message from Senator Franken


    Please take 2 minutes to watch this important video.

    Alan Greenberg’s
    ROPE-A-DOPING WITH MUHAMMAD ALI



    For three hours Ali was in the ring sparring, and the entire time he never threw a punch. When he finally stepped down I asked him what he was doing. “I’m gonna get that sucker so tired of punching me he’s gonna fall flat on his face,” Ali replied. And so the “Rope-a-Dope” was born, not in the ring in Zaire, but in a gym in Pennsylvania. »
    MY LIFE & TIMES IN THE SKIN TRADE

    Up on the stage a man who looks like Klinger on Mash lifts his dress for the audience to inspect him. He has a clit. An actual clit. Then suddenly the legs spread, and PRESTO SLEAZO, there's a schlong! What a bargain! A real live hermaphrodite is about to take the skin of his female genitalia and stretch it over his male genitalia and get it on with itself »

    Great Moments in Sportz
    Professor Irwin Corey Accepts The National Book Award for Thomas Pynchon



    It happened Thursday, April 18th, 1974, at Alice Tulley Hall, and those that were there will never forget it (if they remember it at all). The National Book Awards, commercial publishing’s now defunct version of the Academy Awards was in the bottom of the ninth, down »

    Mimi & Richard Farina Live


    In 1965, Mimi and Richard Farina dropped by the studios of WTBS (now WMBR) with electric guitarist Barry Tashian (of Barry & the Remains) for music and talk with DJ Ed Freeman. Richard is on dulcimer. One of Mimi’s two guitars is tuned like a dulcimer. The explanation for the brief gap in the tape has long been lost.

    CLICK HERE

    Michael Disend's RIDER OF THE JADE HORSE


    Li looked firmly into his eyes. “No! I want man who is also a woman.” Penman nodded against his will, his gaze stealing down toward the strap-on dildo she was generously coating with lube. It thrust out like a red cannon from her leather harness. Why red? Is it because she’s from China?

    »

    Dick Lit
    Stacia St. Owens’
    DISCOVERED


    “Dick lit” has been around since the first caveman’s curiosity stuck his dick into the equation when he rubbed those two rocks together around it until....
    DISCOVERED
    Millie tittered, which is how girls used to be taught to laugh. Tilda wondered if this were an intentional jab.

    Barney Rosset Interview
    (The Subject Was Left Handed)


    Nightlife