* part I of the ill-conceived help me tell you a story about things and yourself, without pants*

"Moose flesh tastes irrevocably of the earth". That's what the crazy old one-eyed woman had growled menacingly at him. She'd obviously recently combed her moustache, though her grooming effort seemed to have halted there. He'd found her vaguely attractive, despite the filth that coated her, and the variety of prosthetics that held her together like some bizarre stringless puppet. Then again, david gentle had found many things attractive in the 43 years he'd been spinning round the sun. He'd always remember what his Ma used to say: "david, you sticky little hanky-stain, stop asking me what it's like to have a vagina!". He'd moved out of home for a life on the road three years whole years ago, and hadn't spoken to her since. He found it strange that he could still remember his Mom's gravelly James Earl Jones like voice, clear as if he'd left only yesterday.

He shivered when the woman grasped his wrist with her real hand. Fragments of scarlet decorating broken nails. He thought he recognized the shade...one of his favourites, possibly 'crushed rose'. He had a flashback to that night in Paris; all the blood, lego, vodka and then the manicure. It was almost too much, and he had to lean on the crazy woman for a moment, or risk passing out again. Her scent was heady, in the way being hit on the forehead with a croquet mallet is heady, and he did pass out.

Just flashes of things. A road, passing below him. A barking yellow dog, kicked and yelping. A hand on his ass. He felt a hand groping in the pocket of his 'I Love Erkel' jacket, towards his prized collection of misprinted KFC cleansing wipes. He had no energy to resist the theft. The pain of being dropped onto a wooden floor, and the bliss of renewed unconsciousness followed.

He awoke with a throbbing headache, and the realization that he was blind. This was followed some seconds later by the realization that he was lying face down in a pile of mostly dead rats, and in fact wasn't blind, but merely viewing rats at very close range under low illumination. He was still pretty sure about the headache part. He gingerly turned himself over, trying to avoid disturbing as many of the still living rats as possible. He found himself needing to stifle a girlish scream. He presumed that it was the crazy old woman who was standing at the end of his rat bed. She was mostly naked, apart from the enormous moose head perched on her shoulders. Her voice sounded muffled and ghoulish, as she repeated the only words he'd heard her say so far; "Moose flesh tastes irrevocably of the earth".

He'd had quite a few 'enough of this weird shit' moments in the three years since he'd been let out of Ma's basement. 'Right now' was rapidly moving up the list of such moments. The point in time at which he noticed the rusty axe in the old crazy woman's good hand was precisely the same point in time that 'right now' became top of the list. He heard the chanting of the other hobos before he saw them; "Moose, Moose, Moose, Moose", in a eerie monotone. He had the irrational desire to scream "Mickey!" at them, fear was obviously clouding what little reason he had started life with.

His memories of what followed were sparse and fragmentary. The old crazy woman was unskilled in the ways of pleasure, but what she lacked in finesse she made up for with sheer dirt encrusted enthusiasm. He vaguely remembered the motley collection of hobos throwing rats at each other. He had no memory of receiving the moose head tattoo (the one he was soon to discover) spreading it's less than regal antlers across his buttocks, but he would later surmise that the artist was probably one of the less reality bound of the hobos: moose generally have only two eyes, and don't quote H.P. Lovecraft in crudely inked speech bubbles. He didn't even remember being put on the Greyhound Bus in which he had just regained consciousness.

The bus was slowing down now. Ahead he could see a ramshackle gas/petrol station, adorned by the sign "Laughin' Hanks Gas". Apparently, Hank spent much time laughing, and very little time attending to his decaying establishment. David Gentle stepped down from the bus with a little difficulty. He shifted his weight from side to side ... he hadn't expected the road to be this hot on his bare and dirty feet. His soon to be discovered tattoo pained him, and he itched his butt tentatively. The dried blood stains on the ass of his worn jeans would only have been recognisable to someone who'd been there when it all went down. Those who'd seen the moose. He wandered towards the lair of Laughin' Hank, knowing that soon enough, adventure would make him its bitch once again.