Author's Note: Todd Brendan Fahey is the author of Wisdom's Maw: The Acid Novel; his collection of short stories, Dogshit Park & other Atrocities, will be published in 2003.

"Infidels!" Hamza cried, hurling the bottle in the direction of the Cadillac Bar and Grill. Then he opened the rear door and ran out into the street, a dark-skinned maniac all jacked up on No-Doz and rum, heralding the pure love of Allah against a blazing red sunset on a Friday night in the center of Jackson Hole, Wyoming, and I was not a bit surprised when a big, rangy cowboy stepped out the front door of the Cadillac and stopped my cabbie cold in his tracks with a sharp kick to the balls with a steel-toed boot. Four of the man's buddies then gave him a beating, the likes of which would have shamed the LAPD.

With the Main Square distracted, I drove past the action and stopped the car at a curb and calmly retrieved my suitcase from the back seat and walked away, leaving the engine running and just enough black hash laying on the front seat to keep Hamza, a known drug-felon, safely contained for the better part of my natural life. By leaving the scene, I figured I would probably hasten his parole by five years. The defense would recall a life filled with sorrow and broken dreams, but no one would care: he was dangerous, and I would only compound his troubles by testifying.

I walked a block or two to the Rusty Parrot Lodge, a handsome, big-beamed sanctuary smelling of pine and potpourri - a conscious union of the Yin & Yang and a deft marketing stroke, designed to keep wealthy couples returning year after year at $220 per night. I doubted I would ever be back, at least not until the freelancer's gig could be counted on to pay more than a coat checker's tip - but I appreciated the Jackson Hole Chamber of Commerce for thinking of me, anyway. My watch read 7:30 pm, which was probably too late for any hope of a free dinner. But it sounded about right for drinks.

A tall, pleasant-looking gentleman in smallish, round spectacles looked up from behind the front desk and smiled. "Your name, sir?"

I nodded. "I'm a guest of the Chamber."

He nodded. "We have a car waiting for you as soon as you get settled in. I'm Peter Martin, the owner of the Rusty Parrot. We're glad to have you staying with us this weekend."

I shook his hand and told him I was glad to be here, studiously dodging questions about the quality of my ride from Salt Lake, which was already beginning to fade like a low-grade nightmare at breakfast.

The man signaled for a bellhop, who appeared in the form of a rumpled, heavyset young cur, apparently ready but unwilling to handle a real-world engagement. The thug tore loose the bag from my fist and flung it over his shoulder, motioning with his other hand toward the stairs.

"There's no elevator," the owner smiled. "We try to keep it like home."

I nodded and managed a saccharine grin that I sometimes wear in the company of old people and relatives. As I began climbing the stairs, I became acutely aware of a not altogether savory presence behind me.

"It's part of the charm," a voice said. "The ambiance, you might say. Christ, they've fixed us in a friggin'temperance house."

I turned to my right and was met with a silver-haired man of sixty or so – a striking figure in a single-breasted Saville Row charcoal banker's stripe, whose slight watering about the eyes told me nearly everything I needed to know. "No booze, eh?" I commented.

"Not a drop," he cursed, tufts of silver protruding from flared nostrils. "We'll have to go out and find ourselves a bottle. You look like a man who can stand his Irish."

"I'll join you in a beer," I said, as we reached my second-floor room. "My stomach's still a bit iffy from the ride."

"Ahh . . . well . . . yes, I suppose a beer would taste fair, now that you speak of it," he said. "Name's Roderick Massey. I write for the London Times. You must be the one from Utah."

I nodded and introduced myself. "Where are the others?" I wondered.

"The others. Christ, what a lot. There's three of them. The woman looks like she'd fetch low prize at the annual Hereford sale. Her husband is with her, a rather innocuous lout . . . one of those skinny, lopey sorts, probably the middling child of a working-class family of Connecticut - a decent, moral lad suffering from an inbred lack of confidence, the type who allows every Jewish mother in the civilized world a calm night's rest, as he will invariably fall for her bossy, she-whale daughter, as this one has apparently, poor wanker. Then there's Jeffrey from Los Angeles, who always looks as if he is in the throes of a terrifically painful bowel movement. Sort of pinched up about the eyes and mouth," he said, screwing on a hideous mask. So you see, there's no reason to be with the others. Unless, of course, you feel a striking need to get your bollocks off. Our hostess from the Chamber appears very fit that way. She seemed rather disappointed by the caliber of men who showed up to this . . . whatever this is," he waved.

My interest in this whole ordeal suddenly advanced a hundred-fold. "Pretty nice, is she?"

He nodded briskly. "And she knows it." He gave me a thorough once-over. "I bet you could crack her nut, handsome lad like you," he said, seizing me by the bicep. "Fine stock. I bet she'll go ninnie over that cleft chin."

Up in my room, I ransacked my clothes bag for a blazer, which I pulled on directly over the jeans and T-shirt I had been wearing the whole of the day. The mirror told me that it could be worse, but also that it would take an entire night's sleep to get the vicious red out of my eyes. Not even Visine would work at this point, though I went ahead and soaked my eyeballs in it anyway, after buying a small bottle from the gift shop downstairs.

Strolling into town, Massey ignored the fading sapphire overhead and the mob on the street that was showing a seated and cowering Iranian cab driver a little Western justice, the half-dozen police officers taking their time filling out the preliminary report. He was fixated on his imminent retirement from journalism, which seemed to have him both agitated and saddened.