Part One:
So Far From Here
I'm goin' where sore losers go
To hide my face and spend my dough
Though it's a dream, it's not a lie
And I won't stop to say goodbye
Paraguay
Paraguay
See I just couldn't take no more
Of whippin' fools and keepin' score
I just thought "well, fuck it man"
I'm gonna pack my soul and scram
Paraguay
Paraguay
Out of the way I'll get away
Won't have to hear the things they say
Tamales and a bank account
Are all I need so count me out
Paraguay
Paraguay
I'll have no fear
I'll know no fear
So far from here
I'll have no fear
-Iggy Pop, “Paraguay”
1.
The radio had been blasting nonstop since he left Colorado, loud and angry punk music blared, drowning out the sound of the pouring rain and roaring thunder. He had been driving nonstop for almost thirty hours straight, he just wanted to get away, he wanted to leave with every fiber of his being. The tears streaming down his face, his eyes red and stinging as he struggled to keep the old beatup ford taurus he was left by his parents before they passed. IT was a shitty car, when it was made he was only two fucking years old. The tires were bald and he didn’t have enough to replace them before heading northeast. The car groaned and swerved a little as it started to hydroplane, and right as he started to black out, a favorite song of his blared from the stereo. He tried to keep himself awake, but through all the booze and hash he smoked before he left, and during wasn’t quite doing him any favors. The guitars were loud and crunchy and dirty.
Woo! YEAH!
Pretty face, and a dirty look
Knew right away I had get my hooks in you
Yeah Yeah!
Iggy was screaming and growling at his loudest, he recognized the sound of The Stooges from a mile away, the kinetic energy, the blatant disregard for everything. The car was ploughing through like a lead sled, and he managed to regain control, the words from his doctor rang loud in his head, but not loud enough to get him to stop, to pull over, to hang it up and go back home. What home? He sold everything, he wasn’t even sure if he wanted to live anymore. Iggy played on, and then things started to go black.
I tell ya honey, it's a crying shame
All the pretty girls they look the same
I wanna fall into a love so sweet
Honey, baby, baby I'm hard
Hard to beat
Whoo!
Hey
Hey
The Doctor’s words echoed in his head amongst the drowning punk rock downpour coming from his speakers, “You shouldn’t be driving in your condition, Allan, I say this as a friend and a Doctor,”
“Blacking out is common in people who have experienced something traumatic, and it devlops into Post Traumatic Stress Disorder,”
It was right about then that he saw the green sign, in the pouring downpour of rain that was seemingly almost biblical.
BANGOR, 5 MILES.
The lightening was so bright it almost hurt his eyes, as the music played on, his vision began to fade fast. He was murmuring to himself a sort of mantra, the magical phrase was something akin to please don’t fucking black out.
Your pretty face is going to hell
Your pretty face is going to hell
Honey, honey, I can tell
Your pretty face is going to
Hell!
That's right, baby
Hell!
He lost it, and in his fading vision, the black slowly creeping in, a sense of dread and dizziness swallowed him whole, that curious sinking feeling when you know you fucked up. The car begun to spin along the highway, the world was spinning the headlights occasionally giving partial illumination to the terrible situation he found himself in. If he died, it might be a blessing, as the car flipped over and began to roll, his boxes of mementos flying open and pelting him in the face with action figures and comic books.
“Oh God please just kill me, don’t make me a paraplegic,” he screamed at the top of his lungs.
The last thing he saw before an earth shattering collision finished the job of knocking him out cold, he saw the trunk of an incredibly huge tree. At the time he thought it would be an impressive sight, if he weren’t absolutely sure he was about to be impaled and or wrapped around it in mere miliseconds.
