Author: Vic Neverman

In the wake of the Maya Apocalypse of 2012, Vic Neverman decided to find a new calling and retired from the conspiracy theory business. Today, Vic is reformed and re-socialized, living in a Florida halfway house where he works as a fixer for local real estate agents. When he can, Vic sets out in search of shade and refreshment in the farthest corners of the world. What he brings back are stories of the world's uncharted dives...

Riverbilly Bacchanalia at the Blue Crab Festival

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.

Amazon River Blues: Blessed Damnation

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.