"perhaps i'm not making myself clear."
what does that mean? get out.
"really, it has to be this way."
get out.
"you can't sleep here."
i won't sleep.
"you have to go...now."
all right, goodbye.
"get out."

I have no family here, in the Dakotas. The troupe I came into town with have scattered; the vehicles have gone. The thought that I have been left behind here crosses my mind, as if I were a scared four-year old looking for maternal assurances. I've lost my bag, and within it the countless treasures it may have held. I bum a Kool from an old Jewish woman wearing a fake fur coat. "Russian-Jewish, really." Pleasantry has lost the pleasure. Age and stereotype have left this poor creature in the state I found her. All we could do is smoke.

The normal tourist blather is cut with the dull drone of a thousand motorcycles. They travel in packs. Most live without god. This place has a way about it. All things exist here without contradiction or error. Haven't seen a cop yet.

Found a book on the little big horn battle...Custer. Lots of pictures. Diagrams and strategies. It's too bad all those Indian chicks didn't look like the ones in the fifties westerns. Raquel Welch--she made one hell of an Indian princess.

Found a nice leather belt too. The man (another Indian) put my name on it for seven dollars more. I already had a belt on, so I slung this one over my shoulder. Thirty yards (or is that feet?) away I catch a glimpse of Scott touching a machine...another Indian. A bottomless Indian made of wood and metal. Its mouth moves, Scott laughs and then runs down the walkway and into a store. Maybe he wants a Custer book too.

For ten dollars two women, dressed as dance-hall whores, take their picture with me. I didn't want to, but they sold me on the idea and one alluded to what events ten dollars would have generated if indeed they were whores of a hundred years prior. The thought of sex with 140-year old women did the trick--take the damn picture.

"They can't sell class-B cigarettes in packs...not in America!" I settle for the class-A's. That trick never works. Bar and shopkeeps hoarding foreign items...trade goods...waiting for those weary souls approach and forego tax and tariff. No black market in South Dakota to speak of. No need to speak of.

I'm tired of walking. I think my feet are bleeding. When do we get to leave Wall Drug? Can we ever? None of this was my idea anyway...

--Letters from a Savior; Offer for a few--


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