400k wds, some neologisms. Story of a young bohemian bawn and bred in the briar patch that lay between the borders of St. Elvis Era and the Eleusinian Feels of alternity.
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The next weekend he spent Friday with his parents back in Whitehaven. Returning to the dorm Saturday afternoon, he found Don Cupreal waiting for him. They decided they would make a spontaneous trip to Midtown and see if they could score some acid. So they hopped in the Maverick and headed down Central Avenue toward the pad of a cat Don knew, more or less. The pad in question was known as "The Big House on Belvedere", and it had a reputation, like every house in Midtown, for being haunted.
"I just met this guy once, Bubba. I hope he's not paranoid of us."
"Long's he sells us the stuff, I don't care how paranoid he is. Where's the house?"
"Take a right at the first driveway as soon as we get through the light."
"That one with the stone posts there?"
"Yeah."
It was an old four-storey mansion sprawling with rooms and wings added on over the decades. Like most houses in Midtown, it was surrounded by large and ancient trees.
"It's supposed to be haunted," Don confided, raising his eyebrows.
"Looks like it. What's the guy's name, anyway?"
"Pope, Gregory Pope, but everybody just calls him Pope."
"Gregory Pope? Wonder if he was named after Pope Gregory?"
"I don't know. He's a Satanist."
"A Satanist named Pope? That's wild!"
Don knocked on the huge oaken door. After a minute or so it swung open to reveal a slight fellow dressed in a black robe. An upside-down silver crucifix hung from a gold chain around his neck. By the smoothness of his skin, Bubba guessed he was three or four years younger than they were, a high school kid.
Far out, Bubba thought, a Satanist groupie!
"Yessss?" he inquired, like the butler in an old horror movie.
"We've come to see Pope," Don explained.
"Come right this way."
They followed the groupie up several flights of steps to the fourth floor, a large loft apartment that comprised the attic of the house. Inside, sitting on a mattress, were several young men of college age, all garbed like the groupie, all except one, that is. That one was dressed in black slacks and turtleneck. He was slender, somewhat wiry, with long blonde hair and a hawkish nose. He reminded Bubba of Keith Relf of the Yardbirds. He stood to greet them. His smile was friendly, but his gaze was one of the most intense Bubba had ever seen. "Hi, I'm Pope," he said, holding out his hand. They shook; his grip was firm, warm.
