Fear And Loathing Amongst Angels

    by Michael Tyler

    It began as a fresh mid-afternoon drive that quickly became an evening of horror, atavistic retreat, and simple bewilderment we would not soon forget.

     Sam and I had been invited by a friend of a friend to what was described as a party of almost Dionysian delight and debauchery. This friend had a history toward hyperbole, but hints he could be right on the money began to appear more concrete as Sam and I approached the property line. Police cars created a blockade and the local Sheriff personally waved us in.

     As one who had dealt with the police on almost a weekly basis for the last few years I took the lead, coming to a screeching halt and initiating the conversation. First rule of conversing with the law – never let them take the initiative.

     “What’s the good word, Officer?”

     “We have info that suggests illegal activities may be taking place in the property beyond these lines, and so we’re just giving a friendly warning that any complaints will be taken more than seriously.” The Sheriff lifted his sunglasses for emphasis; we were now eye to eye, mano to mano.

     “Well you’ll get no such complaints from us Officer, my fiancée and I are simple law abiding citizens out for a Saturday picnic amid like-minded folk”

     “Well one word of warning friend, we’ve had quite a number of the Hell’s Angels pass through already, I’d keep a close eye on your fiancée if I were you.”

     And with that they let us pass, onto the gravel path that would lead us a mile or so into the vast property. The farmland was simply one of many vast properties a wealthy yet unnamed entrepreneur purchased years before on advice from his band of accountants. The property was simple free land, forest and clearing centered around a mansion best left unoccupied. The owner had given permission for the use of the place for the weekend and this was seen as a fine excuse to throw a party to eclipse all parties previous.

     I parked the convertible outside a mansion in name only. The owner was a fan of Jefferson it seemed and so the structure was named ‘Monticello’, but did not live up to the title in the least. A two story run down edifice, it was in dire need of a paint job and more than the odd renovation. Sam took my hand as we approached the entrance.

     Looking around at the other vehicles I noticed the Sheriff was not exaggerating, Harleys nearly outnumbered cars and run down vans painted in psychedelic swirl. It appeared tonight was to be interesting to say the least, a meeting of hippies and outlaws … God help us all.

     Terry, the friend of a friend, greeted us at the door with a more than overly generous handshake and hug.

     “Feel free to take a look around and don’t worry about wandering out of earshot of the good tunes, there are speakers every which way, trust me, we’ve thought of everything.”

     He was right, the blast of Big Brother and the Holding Company struck a note high and fine, and I was instructed that speakers were strung out into the forest itself – God knows how much time, effort and cable this must have required but speed is one hell of a motivator…….

    The inside of the Monticello was more decrepit than even the outside suggested, the staircase seemed ready to collapse, the wallpaper was stripped in some sections and peeling in others. The carpet was more than worn, perhaps the owner was wiser than I had given him credit … whatever was to occur over the next twenty four hours could not in the least do damage to what was already a structure most given to decrepitude.

     Sam took my hand once more as we walked from room to room, ground floor only given the condition of the staircase. In what would be labelled the great room there were Angels and longhairs indulging in what could only be described as a mountain of coke on a glass topped coffee table. I was taken by the lack of machismo in the room, the Angels were known to take pride in dominating any space they entered into, ‘We are not to be fucked with,’ was their unspoken declaration, yet they shared space with effeminate looking tie-dyed flared longhairs and braless children of the sun, wide eyed at the best of times.

     In the kitchen we encountered a table top full of glasses in neat rows filled with what appeared to be orange soda.

     “Feel free,” said the mustachioed purveyor, “I’ve dosed each glass with a hit of liquid LSD, so embrace the moment.”

     Sam took a glass while I took two – I had been burned by weak acid before. Our new friend seemed genuinely pleased for us and even took a step or two to give me a longer than comfortable hug.

     “Everyone seems to come here first man, that’s why I’m here, to spread the love.”

     I inquired if he’d served any Angels, “All of those dudes man, most of them seemed a bit wary, a few said it wasn’t really the Angel way, usually they keep to booze and uppers but what the hell…”

     Suddenly the scene in the main room made sense. I had tried acid for the first time the year before, after declining for years due to the fact many close friends had informed me that my natural prevalence for violence would rear its ugly head and I would turn into some seventeenth century vile beast of the night. One day however I said ‘fuck it’ and found myself at my most peaceful, it appeared to mellow even the most distressed of souls and in that respect I could see why the hippies were safe … for now.

     We next made way to the library where we found a man bent over a dictionary, reading each word and definition aloud, following each with a declaration of “Yes! Yes! Yes!” before moving onto the next.

     “Why don’t we spend some time outside,” said Sam, running her hands through her newly cropped hair. “Somewhere secluded.” She stroked the inside of my palm as if declaration.

     “Why not?” I answered. “When surrounded by freaks it’s always best to take a defensive position.”

     We turned and started back toward the front entrance when a man in a brown robe stepped up and took each of us by the shoulder.

     “Friends, if you’re interested there is currently a gathering of like-minded sexual adventurer’s in a side room enjoying each other in all ways most pleasurable.”

     “An orgy,” I replied.

     “We have no labels here friend, simple expressions of love.”

     While far from a prude I’d be damned if anyone so much as touched my fiancé on yet I did well to keep rage to a minimum in my reply.

     “I think … friend … that we’ll take the more standard one-on-one route to sexual delight.”

     He seemed to get the hint, withdrawing with a simple call over the shoulder from a safe distance that, “The offer still stands, we’ll be here all evening.”

     Sam squeezed my shoulder in encouragement as to my restraint, we exited the Monticello in pursuit of a tree far from the action for some gentle respite, finding ourselves however witness to a beating of the most brutal kind.

     Two Angels wrestled in the parking lot while a group surrounded and observed. The general rule is that if one Angel is attacked all Angels take offence and retaliate as a unit, but Angel on Angel seemed to be more akin to man on man warfare. The two men, both six foot and 240 pounds at the least, wrestled for thirty more seconds or more before one managed to flip his opponent onto his back and lay the beat down, punch after punch, bone on flesh, again and again, until his opponent was left unconscious. At that point the victorious Angel stood, walked a few paces, picked up a fair sized rock and dealt a vicious blow on the defeated Angels skull. Once, twice, and only on raising his arms for a third was intervention deemed necessary, several Angels took him by the shoulders and dragged him back into the house, the fallen Angel left unconscious and bleeding on the gravel.

     Before she could speak I simply turned to Sam and informed her that “This is none of our business, let’s find that tree.”

     A couple of hundred yards or so away we found an area far from the action where we could lie and enjoy the first rush of the acid. Joplin’s pitch perfect screech from a trunk overhead accompanied as Sam and I found ourselves in heaven, short lived but heaven all the same.

     We made love under the sycamore and for a sweet moment all thoughts of orgies, ever watching police and bloodied men on fallen gravel turned to dust. It was simply Sam and I and the grass and the music and the feeling one has when love seems most true.

     We lay for hours hand in hand in the grass, speaking little and thinking less, simply experiencing each minute, each hour and delighting in the company of the other.

     Before we knew it night began to fall and we made way back to the Monticello. As we approached the convertible we observed the defeated Angel still strewn on the gravel, and much to Sam’s concern I insisted on going inside one last time to witness for myself if things had turned out much as predicted… Sam took refuge in the convertible.

    The mustachioed purveyor of liquid LSD was slumped against a cabinet, the hippies in the great room were also horizontal, some with black eyes or bloody noses but given the possibilities in much fairer condition than could have been expected. The side room orgy was still underway but with such pitiful enthusiasm it appeared those participating were doing so more through self-prescribed duty than any God given lust. The man in the library was in a kneeling position, unconscious but not before having torn the pages from each and every book within reach.

     The Angels were everywhere, the only partygoers left standing they had made their presence felt in the only way they knew how, they now roamed from room to room in search of anything worth stealing. Some were bleeding from the nose but this seemed more from an overabundance of coke than anything else.

     In essence, as difficult as it was to admit, the primal had overcome a hard truth to take in on a head full of acid, but truth all the same.

     I made way back to the convertible and sat next to Sam who asked how things looked inside. For a moment I failed to adequately describe the horror, eventually I simply stated, “It’s what you’d expect … simply what you’d expect.”

     We sped down the gravel only to be drawn to a sudden stop at the property line. The Sheriff approached, “Had a good time this evening Sir?”

     “It was an adventure worthy of Priapus himself,” I responded.

     “You or your fiancé indulge in any illegal substances?”

     “We’re fine upstanding citizens Officer, and to be honest I take offense at the implication.”

     The Sheriff smiled, “Well don’t worry, we plan to get every single one of those Hell’s Angels bastards no matter what they’ve been involved in, what do you think of that?”

     “Well… in times like these each must do what they feel best.”

     

     And with that the Sheriff left us as we fishtailed into the night.

    Michael Tyler has been published by Takahe, Bravado, Adelaide Literary, PIF, Daily Love, Danse Macabre, Apocrypha and Abstractions, Dash, The Fictional Café, Potato Soup Journal, Fleas On The Dog, Cardinal Sins, Mystery Tribune, Other Terrain, Suddenly And Without Warning, Mad Swirl, Sync Chaos and Active Muse.

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