All the way to New Orleans

Nowadays it's Kris Kristofferson or my old Grateful Dead cd's on the car sound-machine, but back then it was the real thing, the wild ride into New Orleans when i was hitch-hiking across America for the hell of it. The trucker with the hairy moustache told me he was Jesus and that i was Jesus too and I believed him and we sat in the cab of his big White truck and called each other Jesus across the entire state of Alabama. "So long Jesus", he called at me when I got out to keep going in the general direction of New Orleans whilst he pointed his big 18-wheeler in the general direction of the Mid West. But then the devil came and gave me a ride and I was getting high with some red-necked motherf that I should have avoided like the plague but I was young and impresionable and the girl I was travelling with was attracting all these grizzled grunting back-woods hogs and I thought to myself it would be allright but it was starting to be very unallright. We were back in the pick-up truck but there was no sign of the highway and the woods were getting denser and darker and premonition was raining inside my head and it spelt disaster. But Jesus came to my rescue as i summoned the powers of goodness and a shaft of sense penetrated my addled brain and before the rape could happen I warned them of powerful connections and political intrigue and mafia revenge and somehow this penetrated and the dogs of lust were stopped in their tracks and we were booted out of the car, bruised but unhurt, and alive and intact, and the song of Jesus and the long slow smile of America was intact.

And in New Orleans Jesus and the devil kept up their powerful tango: the harlots and the hookers showed generosity and beauty, a state of grace amidst their squalor, and the captains of industry and the kings of rock'n'roll were mean and disbelieving and the world again demonstarted its infinite capacity for endless surprise. The bouncer in the whorehouse where I worked was stalked by a man with a pistol in his pocket but I tipped him off and he pulled out his pearl-handled magnum and blew him away, dying like a Scottish stag underneath the frosted glass doorway where the pink glow of the sunrise was starting to blush. The hole in his chest was enormous and his lungs heaved for air and then collapsed and I was the only witness to a murder in Fat City in a crowded bar that emptied faster than the wallets of the drinkers and the touchers.

If you want more tell me.