Captain Dick has gone missing! Isy Badger and Vic contemplate Dick’s demise from a wine bar in the Old City of Cartagena.
It was one of the Blue Crab Festivals of yore when I met the girl not named Stacy. 38 Special was the featured performance. The crab harvest was promising. I was smoking Cuban cigars in a linen suit while riding the mechanical bull, El Toro Roboto, in the beer tent. After a fall into the limestone dirt, the voice of a spectator urged me to ride again. Now, I am not one easily swayed into acts of reckless wild abandon, but if it is going to happen, some strange dame is likely to blame. She called herself Stacy. And I called myself Bucky Swoon. I claimed to be a card-carrying member of the Tea Party who insisted on lifting the speed limit for jet-skis in manatee zones. God, Stacy said, you are fucking stupid. We spent the night on her front porch.
Karma Café is a Euro-trash hippie joint with hypnotic cocktails, framed portraits of large-breasted mermaids with anaconda tails, a television airing delayed soccer matches, ceiling fans circulating the sweet scent of sweat-opium-patchouli and a food menu catering to those on the Ayahuasca diet. Of their cocktails, I recommend Peru’s national drink, the Pisco Sour.
At the End of the World, all are barefoot. The sand floor is midday hot at midnight. Tropical air is thick and combustible from the airborne sweat & rum swung from the bodies of dancers. The mood is frantic, panicked and carnal with a backdrop of impending doom. It is a ramshackle bar atop of a rocky outcrop surrounded by a swelling ocean during the twilight of man’s dominion over the earth. The end is near and there is a growing concern I will not live to see the climax.