Don from Dodge City, Ken Kesey & Missile Silo LSD: Part I

The drive was actually much shorter than it seemed. Barreling down the highway beneath a broiling sun, cutting through the sticky air of a Kansan summer. Once the joint was finished Jack popped what was left in his mouth and we rolled down the windows. My hair then hung around my shoulders and began to fly wildly in the wind. Jack's was highlighted with bright green streaks. Our beautifully filthy blue jeans were covered with colorful phrases and drawings, set with permanent marker. We had run out drawing room and took to the car, a small, white beat-up trash can that refused to die. We named it "the Groove Machine". Jack drove with the word "Pilot" printed in bold red letters on his door. On my door the letters spelt out "Navigator". We didn't normally air out the car after smoking pot but this was central Kansas, a special day and we were trying to stay discreet. Beck crooned "Odelay" out of the crackling speakers.
"We should make it there just in time!"
Jack shouted over the howling wind.
"When were we supposed to be there!?!"
I asked, watching cars zip back and fade         behind us.
"I'm pretty sure he said 2!"

"Pretty sure" felt like a safe bet as we approached town and Jack slowed the car down to a rattle.
"Welcome to Dodge City! Home of Boot hill!". With the sight of the sign expectation grew to skin tingling excitement. Dodge City! We were here. A place were war cries of Kiowas still echoed in the air. The shadows of fast flying birds transformed into bullets before your eyes and cowboys died slow in the mud, coughing and choking on their own blood. This was also the former home of my future wife's relatives, the Dalton gang. Their hideout still stands there along with the 95 foot escape tunnel that they had dug below it.
Yes, to be an outlaw don't come easy. Although this was not 1896, it was 1996, this simple fact had not changed. The pursuit of happiness and freedom demands that a man constantly be on guard. Every nerve on alert. Eyes scanning each street for some cop looking to work through his inferiority complex on the innocent young children of draft-dodging baby-boomers.

After a short drive we were walking up a narrow stairway and settling into thrift-store throw-away chairs in a dingy white apartment. We were told Don had left awhile back and would be returning soon...