15:2 My Sweet Angel

SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA  |  1969

“So there we were, at the Canadian border, five of us in a van crammed with instruments and two pounds of the best Humboldt County weed you could imagine,” Bentley entertained a captive audience of very stoned fans with tales of adventure and debauchery on the road. “Woody was the one driving as he hadn’t come on to the acid yet, and we were hoping to make it to Vancouver before he did.”

Watching Bentley from the corner of the dimly lit room through all the hash smoke, cigarette haze, and bullshit, sat a raven-haired 17-year-old with the unlikely appellation Raenbeaux Starr. Blessed with an unerring sixth sense for trouble, Karoline Rosenda watched the girl from the opposite side of the room.

“As soon as we drove up to the booth and the Mountie was giving Woody the treatment—you know, ‘Where are you going in Canada? How long do you plan to stay? All of that—our fucking bass player lost his hold on reality. He lunged up between the front seats and starting raving and growling, “I’m a monster!”

Caught up in pantomiming his story, Bentley was oblivious to the girl staring a hole into the side of his face.

“Now, Canadians have a very dry sense of humor,” Bentley continued. “The Mountie simply looked at our bassist and asked, ‘Are you carrying any fruits or veg?’ It was all we could do not to just dissolve into maniacal laughter. Somehow, we got waved through and made it far enough down the road so that we could pull over and lose it. I actually pissed myself I was laughing so hard.”

Rosenda noticed that while most of the assorted hangers-on were laughing at Bentley’s story, the young girl in the corner had never shifted her gaze. She was, however, moving closer to the star, carrying with her a massive lit joint.

The nymphean creature sidled up to Bentley and took a huge hit before shotgunning the pungent smoke into his mouth, sensuously brushing his lips with her own. The crowd reacted with a mix of encouragement and bemusement, sparking Rosenda to question the act.

“What?” she stuttered, the heady atmosphere in the room taking a toll on her faculties. “What’s wrong with that?”

One of the heads that was sitting cross-legged under a massive purple batik mandala spoke up. “Oh, it’s groovy. It’s just that Raenbeaux’s trip is Angel Dust. You know, PCP? Your man there is gonna be engaged for the next few hours.”

“God damn it!” Rosenda raged. “You fucking idiots, I’m going to lose my job!”

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