TALES FROM
THE EDGE
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Story by william brown
(with a wink of an eye to hunter s. thompson)
Photos by boris becker
barks by mischief
With assignments in hand… william brown “the writers writer“, mischief “the dharma dog” and boris “I like to hug big cedar trees” becker…our fearless trio hit the door running and never looked back (well…boris did cause he dropped his bong) …anyway…wife and kids were left in the rosemary scented dust…and now ladies and gentleman…children of all ages…watch as our heroes race out to the backcountry to begin to try and find the Canadian dream…can it be found?…does it even exist? And then bear witness…as what went from a leisurely sunny late fall drive around the little slocan region and into a full on drug crazed, full moon howling, sunday bloody sunday epic that left a straight jacket burn on the asses of our two fearless comrades…
What I meant to say was that…
Right around the time the acid began to take hold…my pocket on my winter down jacket ripped to the bone…and then out of the full moon shadows…the campground assistant came. Not sure how the two relate other than this is the story of how the torn fabric of my reality interacted with a freaky looking dude who looked half caucasian and half asian. Big fu Manchu goatee and handle bar hells angel moostache.
And not one of those suburban dads out for a weekend pass with his bros on his shiny harley davidson kind of mustache. But a hell bent, hot iron poker with a twist of meat and potatoes stuck in that mustache…or maybe those things aren’t meat and potatoes…but MAGGOTS!!! Great Scott!…things were moving around on his facial hairs! I paused before I spoke to gather my thoughts. I pulled out my magnifying glass to get a better look at this bedfellow of sorts.
Woa! On second thought I wish I hadn’t of done that …this guy had a face that looked like half maggot and half bat. He puked out that the fire was “too high” and measured it off with a rusty measuring tape to make sure we got the point.
“You see, you see!!!” he said jumping around and yapping like a baby coyote.
I sent mischief my spiritual advisor to sniff him out and report back to me. Meanwhile he began to blabber about 30 dollars for campground fees.
“30 dollars!” I cracked, “you must be out of your huckleberry picking mind!?!.”
“30 dollas or I tell the Nazis you’re here!”
Nazis! Did this guy say “Nazis” or was this drug playing wicked games with me…better take no chances…I want no piece of Nazis up here in the high country.
Mischief sent back an ESP report telling me that this guy was indeed crazier than a no headed loon.
My Norwegian photographer boris was too busy rolling up cobwebs of smoke and didn’t notice the seriousness of the situation…
I leaned over and whispered in his ear…
“Nazis are looking to cut our balls off!”
His eyes shot out of his head…
Shhhhh…I wanted to probe this little wood gremlin who called himself a campground assistant, but he disappeared in a poof of smoke that merged with our fire and puffed the magic dragoned off into the night.
“Probably haunts that old broken down doukhobor cabin over there.” Boris said pointing somewhere into the pitch black.
“Oh that’s great…I bet he also slits happy campers throats on full moon nights and drinks it like a vampire!” I said while peeping through the spaces in between my fingers.
“And then gives the bodies of our dead flesh to Nazis and their girlfriends…like someone giving fruit to their god.” Boris mentioned with a casual shrug of his shoulders like it was a matter of fact.
Sweaty Jesus I needed to get a hold of myself here. Condense my aura. Re-align my chakras. De-frag my computer. What I really needed to do was take a walk down by the lake…get back to nature…shake off these thoughts of vampire campground assistants and flesh eating Nazis and their secret enclaves.
That’s better…look at the lake…take some deep breaths…absorb the moons sonar rainbow rays…see little frog buddhas smiling on green lily pads…watch the silvered gilled trout dance with the moon…hear the high winds whip through the valley like crickets peaked on some strange and radiant fungi cell.
I was feeling much better when I noticed boris next to me and we proceeded to have a polite conversation about barack obama…then we respectfully walked back to the tent and ashed the fire out…we laughed…we cried…we went to bed…tucked away in the cocoon of my sleeping bag I thought I heard a chainsaw in the night…
CHAINSAWS IN THE NIGHT!
NAZIS WITH CHAINSAWS IN THE NIGHT!!…
NOOOOO!!!…instead I let those thoughts drift off and let the moons rays pick it apart…drifted off to sleep thinking about ghosts…goblins…fairies and nymphs…
Now I lay me down to sleep…
“Good night boris.”
“Good night william brown…remember it’s all a dream and you’ll be okay”
“okay”
Sometimes I need to think this way.
To be continued…as we watch and cheer as our heroes continue to try and find the Canadian dream whereupon they come across a family that chops their chickens heads off with a guillotine…these and other tales from the edge…rather, part soon coming too!
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