Prick is still evading ICE and arrives in Seattle. What becomes him and his crew in the city of Grunge, fish markets, Boeing & Microsoft?
Transcript
After what seemed like days of that rather monotonous, American hinterland (which was really only about 48 hours- but a bad batch of mescaline is a lifetime) we finally rumbled into a city that looked like someone had spilled a tin of green emulsion against a backdrop of shimmering grey water. Hills rose and fell, draped in lush almost English Home Counties like vegetation, and everywhere you looked, there was a glimpse of the Puget Sound, all misty and deep blues and the glint of sunlight on distant ships and yachts. Even through the haze of that rather exceptional home grown “Pacific Northwest Special” we’d acquired, Seattle had a certain mystical, dreamlike oomph.
Beryl gave up the ghost – with a theatrical shudder – right near Pike Place Market. What a glorious, teeming chaos! Fishmongers were theatrically flinging their slippery wares, the air thick with the scent of saltwater and blooming flowers. Stalls overflowed with vibrant produce, colours practically leaping out at you. It was a sensory overload, a proper feast for the senses (and Reggie was in an fucking seedy bate after chewing on dried peyote. I had advised him to stick to downers on the last leg towards the coast, but oh no! The darling wanted to “taste Shakespeare…”).
As Beryl sighed her last, and the beastly roaring hum intensified. We were right in the thick of it: an anti-Trump demonstration of truly epic and artistic proportions, snaking its way through the streets. The crowd pulsed with energy, a kaleidoscope of homemade signs bobbing against the backdrop of brick buildings and the iconic Space Needle piercing the overcast sky like a retro-futuristic needlepoint. The sound of cowbells, drums and whistles added to an atmosphere of angry, but somehow at the same time, gentle hippyish annoyance. Revolution wasn’t on the cards here… but something was beginning. Something here in the NorthWest was gathering snow.
I found myself momentarily separated from Reggie and Chuck, the latter likely still expounding his theories on the socio-political implications of Trump’s desire to con a billion or two from the poorest, least educated to anyone within a ten-foot radius. I’d wandered onto a rather steep thoroughfare – Pine Street, I believe it was called – when I encountered him. A lone figure amidst the general Seattle bonhomie, sporting a baseball cap emblazoned with a rather aggressive “Trump Country, so Fuck You” and clutching a takeaway coffee cup with a distinctly belligerent air. Perhaps it was the lingering effects of the cheeky little cigarette paper filled with coke i had swallowed earlier, or maybe just the inherent contrariness that lurks within every fucker from the Isles of Brit, but I felt a sudden, irresistible urge to engage. “Rather… enthusiastic headwear you’ve got there, old chap,” I observed, my tone perhaps a tad too laced with rich vowels for the local MAGA sensibilities. He fixed me with a glare that could curdle the finest latte. “What’s it to ya, Limey? You one of them snowflake liberals infestin’ this town?”
Before I could formulate a suitably withering retort, the argument was well and truly joined, escalating with surprising speed into a rather undignified shouting match about the merits (or rather, the glaring lack thereof) of President Trump’s (ahem!) fiscal policies, punctuated by my increasingly slurred pronouncements and his surprisingly detailed knowledge of the most stupid Fox News talking points. The vibrant street, with its bustling cafes and quirky boutiques, suddenly felt a tad less welcoming, the aroma of freshly brewed coffee momentarily overshadowed by the distinct tang of political animosity. He spat and growled as he backed away from my raised walking stick… and I suddenly realised… I haven’t used a walking stick since covid recovery in ‘22… and I looked. I indeed had in my hand, Reggie’s left leg. I had wondered why the rancid smell of putrescent flesh had been following me…
And there was Chuck, our very own psychedelic pied piper, perched precariously atop Beryl’s roof. His oration, delivered with the conviction of a man who’d just communed with the cosmic microwave, bounced off the surrounding buildings. “…the tyranny of fucking thieving flaking gold paint covered beige! The existential threat of straw toupee thatched decaffeinated thought! Rise, oh shimmering souls of Seattle! Unleash the all devouring kraken of COMPASSION!”
The crowd, a glorious mix of flannel-clad locals, tie-dye enthusiasts, “grunge” re-enactors and individuals with truly impressive piercings, roared its approval. They surged forward, a wave of humanity carrying Chuck aloft like a particularly blotto deity.
Reggie, who was currently attempting to decipher the breakfast menu on an Easy Street Records flyer, merely adjusted his spectacles. “The Kraken is a lovely addition for the Trump Library… from Qatar no less!” The poor bugger had been hopping around one legged. I apologised and handed him his plastic, but strangely necrotic left gam.
We stumbled after our levitating leader, the scent of strong coffee mingling with that distinctive, sweet aroma wafting from various corners. We found ourselves drawn into a bustling coffee shop in the Capitol Hill district, the air buzzing with fervent discussion and the rhythmic hiss of espresso machines. This wasn’t your bland chain coffee; this was serious stuff, dark and rich, the kind that could jump-start Chuck Schumer (well, with a teaspoon full of adrenochrome stirred into his latte).
Here, amidst the exposed brick walls and the earnest conversations, we met Rain, her dreadlocks a cascade of earthy tones, who spoke with fierce passion about Trump’s water and logging policies and the ancient forests just outside the city. Her eyes, the colour of moss after a rain shower, held a deep connection to the cleaner, recycled and reused world she imagined.
Kai, with her sharp wit and even sharper eyeliner, held court on the erosion of LGBT rights under Trump, gesturing emphatically with hands adorned with silver rings as she spoke of fear and a feeling of abandonment in the Trans community.
And Jasper, in a corner booth overlooking Elliott Bay, was crying heavy, bitter tears about America and its awful part in the genocide in Palestine.
The local libations flowed freely. We sampled “Fremont Interurban IPA,” a hoppy brew that tasted like the very essence of the Pacific Northwest, and sipped on “Woodinville Whiskey,” a smooth amber spirit that warmed the soul. The air grew thick with the heady combination of caffeine, cannabis (courtesy of a local farmer), beer and impassioned and sincere political discourse.
Reggie mumbled a comparison with Trump’s cabinet to the dodgy scenery on Love Thy Neighbour, much to the puzzlement of our hosts. Chuck, when he occasionally materialized, still slightly elevated and radiating cosmic energy, would offer snippets of his earlier sermon, occasionally pausing to marvel at the “symphony of existential angst, like the cries of a liberty loving and dying bald eagle” emanating from a nearby saxophone player.
As the day mellowed into a damp Seattle evening, the lights of the city twinkling like fallen stars against the dark hills, I felt a sense of camaraderie, but this feeling was tempered by small pungent dollops of Trump faeces. Here, in this vibrant, rain-kissed city, surrounded by passionate souls fighting the good fight (and enjoying some rather excellent local produce), we had found an uneasy temporary home. Now, all we needed was to locate Chuck, who was last seen attempting to lead a group of protesters in a collective “graffiti the Tesla” through the streets, and perhaps track down a place to sleep (no way was i sleeping in that fucking puss filled car again).
