Dark Side of the 60's Moon by Mike Marino (beginner reading books for adults txt) 📕

way which got me to thinking of putting up with some form of intense loud vocal Canadian moose mating call imitations in the wild signalling orgasm which could be a distraction to my own no holds barred American red, white and blue tag team fornication forays with Myrika.

We didn’t have much time to spare if we wanted to be in on the Alcatraz protest from the gentlemen start your engines cultural diversity dragstrip starting line.  When we finally arrived at the Mich-Rez there were armed sheriff’s deputies and reservation police roaming around patrolling the roads leading away from the entrance. I also spotted one suit and tie type with a blue windbreaker with the letters F-B-I on the back in big bold intimidating letters. Damn...there’s no getting away from these pricks. They’re everywhere in numbers greater than venereal disease in a New Orleans whorehouse.

We drove slowly, cautiously onto the reservation, with Danny taking point to lead and get us  to his friend, Anoki Begay’s run down outhouse of an abode of grey cinder block walls and a very un-stylish home beautiful sheet metal roof that would be at home if it were attached to a quonset hut in a Phillipine village, where when it rained the drops added a flamenco dance sound bop..bop...bop..bang...bang... loud enough to drown out the sounds of the War of 1812 overtures cannonade even if the cannons themselves were fired off live from the adjacent bathroom.

We were definitely an item of curiosity to the Marshall Dillon’s in squad cars who couldn’t take their gaze off of us. We didn’t hurry as we didn’t want to excite any itchy trigger fingers with a lust to draw Indian and Hippie blood just yet.

It didn’t take too long to find ourselves at Anoki’s  front door. I noticed there was no “welcome” mat awaiting us. It was a foxhole-esque compound straight out of an Audie Murphy movie, not a home with 2.3 kids roller skating happily about being chased gleefully by their friendly  mixed hound dog , Ol’ Blue.

Pulling to a stop Myrika noticed peering eyes were watching us from inside the makeshift hovel followed by  the door bursting  open and out popped Anoki,  a deranged Jack in the Box puppet with a pop goes the weasel Jimmy Stewart Winchester rifle in hand motioning for us to hurry inside.

“I don’t know what’s going on, Myrika,” I cried out. “Hurry, let’s hustle!”

We were introduced to Anoki briefly and sat down to a cold beer in hand as well as being handed a weapon. Myrika seemed in her comfort zone with the cold steel rifle in hand  exciting her flesh. I made a mental note to let her have her way with me in the future, her favorite Myrika on top of me while she would be dressed in a Catholic school girls plaid skirt, barefoot holding me at gunpoint. Now, that’s entertainment. She liked role playing anyway, but we hadn’t played Viking invasion with a fair amount of rape and pillaging for a month now.

Anoki finally spoke and addressed our misfortune  at arriving when we did

“Bad timing, my friends. Bad day. The FBI is here trying to bust some of the guys from the American Indian Movement, accusing us of making bombs to use on federal buildings. Bullshit! They also accused my chief, Running Deer of shooting up the Indian Affairs office here on the rez earlier today!”

“Jesus, Danny,” I whispered to my peaceful friend from the UP, “What the hell do we do now? Your friends have to work on their social skills a little bit. Guns and Bombs? Christ, we’re dead I tell you. DOA, dormant, no more breathing or fucking...that kind of goddamned dead!”

While I contemplated an early demise ala St. Valentines Day Massacre, Myrika and Kaylee were busy in animated conversation on what course of action we should all take. After all, we were just dropping by to pick the guy up and head west. Now we appeared to have stumbled into the modern version of the OK Corral...and believe me I was not the Lone Ranger, Danny Two Horse was no Tonto and Myrika sure as hell wasn’t Annie Oakley!

We dared to leave the safety, well, relative safety of what can only best  be described as a shack to venture out onto the porch and into the gathering dusk and dust to kept a watchful eye out for an attack. We  were now armed men and women.  Danny, myself and Anoki sat on the porch  watching the sun begin to set and a cloud of dust building up on the dirt road that led straight to where we were enjoying a home brewed beer. Myrika joined us while inside the others were loading weapons.

As the dust and vehicles got closer we noticed two unmarked cars  in hot pursuit of a rusted out  pickup truck belonging to one of Anoki’s friends, Jimmy Eagle, yet another activist upsetting the government apple cart on the reservation.

“It is a nasty color isn’t it?” Anoki asked as if my answer would explain the origins of the universe.

I had to laugh. He was right. That was one ugly truck.
Anoki  took a swig from his beer, then with the seriousness of a wise old medicine man said, “We call it shit-brown. Yep. Here comes old shit-brown. No other words can describe it or do it proper justice,” he nodded in affirmation of his own internal epiphany.

“Yep, shit-brown,” I agreed. It was one hell of an ugly truck.

Ol’ Shit Brown was being chased by another vehicle. One  of those funeral black unmarked except for obvious government license plates cars with black wall tires. They were in full chase mode.

Turns out they were FBI and probably would get a "what the fuck" award for heroism and bravery beyond the call of duty, on a level of those lauded in the capture of Bonnie and Clyde. That is if  they could bring in shit browns driver Jimmy in...dead or alive I suspected.

As the pursuit proceeded closer to Anoki’s where the beer was now getting warm, the two FBI agents in the chase vehicle were  coming  under heavy fire from rifles blasting  from Shit Brown’s two passengers.  The two agents were unable to return fire from their .38's. Why, I have no idea. Fire at me and I'll find a way to fire back. I guess those .38 specials weren't so special after all. Mayday calls were issued and as another agent vehicle arrived to join the chase he too was subject to intense fire. Soon, the pick-up truck arrived at Anoki’s with  the FBI  right on their tailgate.

At that point with the three FBI agents stepping out of the cars everyone inside Anoki’s came outside armed and with angry looks that I could see culminating in disaster. It was Custer’s last stand all over again!

We found out earlier that day,  law enforcement had  shot  a ranking local member of AIM, who managed to elude capture after he was wounded. The FBI claimed that he and another AIM member, Anoki, in fact, had shot two FBI agents dead and their bodies were removed from their vehicles and dumped in a small quarry pit, while the vehicles were torched.

“You know Danny, this is not good. If they find out I’m ducking the draft and working for the resistance, I’m dead meat, Amigo,” I whispered out of the corner of my mouth. Safe all these months underground now I had walked into the jaws of the FBI. Myrika, was also at risk of being deported on her expired visa. Either way if General FBI Custer wins this stand-off...we’re all going to prison!

Things were getting tense as more lawdogs showed up and by 6:30 the dinner show got underway as the FBI began firing into Anoki’s  house where we had all started to retreat. It was time for a firefight and we had makeshift protection behind overturned tables, chairs, a large couch and even Jimmy’s prized color TV was ready to put its cathode ray tube life on the line!







Bullets created a barrage of gunfire spraying the building turning the door into Swiss cheese . We returned fire to the phantoms in the growing dark of dusk advancing slowly but deliberately when we heard a car start up out back. It was then I noticed...Danny had flown the coop and was heading out to get his Buick and Flashback fired up for an escape...real old west jump from from the roof and into the saddle Range Rider stuff.

Anoki  was hit in the shoulder, I took a bullet grazing my  arm and the large  TV, Anoki’s pride and joy that dominated the corner of the living  room was now DOA after a shotgun blast inflicted serious injury to every GE tube inside.

The FBI agents  were now advancing  on the porch when out of the stark landscape...we could hear cars and trucks rushing to our stonghold...reinforcements were coming! An army of Native American pickup trucks with armed passengers in the back beds and on the running boards firing at the agents and deputies who were now on the offensive and scattered as we emerged from Anoki’s returning lead and catching them in crossfire as they scrambled for their cars and beat a hasty retreat.

We had arrived earlier at the OK Corral...now we were victorious at the Little Big Horn!
Nice to be on the winning side!
Chapter 49 - Toronto Gives Peace a Chance

While we were   steamrolling across that crazy patchwork landscape of flat rectangular states that define the Midwest on our quest to reach the golden bikini clad beach bunny coast of California, Joey was now a prisoner of king heroin in Toronto, having been taken there by our contacts with the Quebec Separatist Movement. Joey had become a liability to the draft resistance movement as soon as he turned FBI snitch to avoid a lengthy stay in Michigan’s Jackson prison. We had already orchestrated the demise of the FBI infiltrator, Paul, that Joey so willingly brought into our operation. We wanted Joey out of way and the French Canadians had the perfect plan. In all, in an effort to save lives…..we were willing to sacrifice two lives, including one belonging to my best friend since first grade. The moral compass was spinning wildly out of control.

Joey was taken to an area called Yorkville in Toronto, the Canadian version of the Emerald City, Greenwich Village and Haight Ashbury all rolled into one monster bowl of hipster holy hipness, but decidedly with a definite Canadian flavor to it, awash in a counter culture of  hipsters, folkies, runaway, pimps, prostitutes and enough white powder dope from southern France packed aboard sinister Algerian freighters shipped in to sink the Bismark. Seems, Joey, following the heroin brick road fell in with a group of Canadian bikers called the Vagabonds whose forte was dealing drugs and beating people up for the hell of it. Two things they didn’t need a college degree to excel in.

The ribald spirit of revolution was running rampant on a full tank of youthful exuberance in Toronto as it was everywhere in those days through nonconformity,