There is a movie in here somewhere. Somewhere between a classic film noir and a hang-over flick. Except this is real. It's a classic because I am in a hotel room in the ridiculous heat watching a fan spin so slowly it couldn't care less about the sweat running down my face. It's a hangover sequel as I am desperately trying to recall the events for several missing hours of my life two nights ago, and I am in the sort of hotel you couldn't dream up. Outside my door in the courtyard is a stuffed monkey sat behind the steering wheel of a model T Ford. With a whale bone strapped to the bonnet. Only in Mexico.
And what the hell is that smell? Medication? Rum?
It hurts to move, and I very much wish I was writing a story, not an account right now. Collecting my thoughts and the laptop, I sit on the bed and try to think. None of it was connected: there was the FBI in Los Angeles. The drunken night in Vegas and the poker. I remember the guy here in Cortez screaming in terror that I was a pirate. The knife. The strip joint and hiding from the local Mexican drug dealers. The walking skeleton of Katrina; the beautiful and flirtatious but dead Mexican lady. But most of all I have the image of the Black Wind in my mind... and the state we found her in.