Thanks to our last few remaining greenbacks, two hours later we’re having drinks at the bar in Phoenicia. Me, Edge, and Rob.
“Well, Baker,” Edge says, after stealing a sip from his cold bottle of Budweiser. “At least we have something to write about now.”
“How’s the old song go again?” Rob says, running one hand through his Mohawk, and wrapping the other around a shot of Jack Daniels. “So close, but yet so far away . . .” He sings the punk version, grunting the lyrics out rather than singing them with perfect pitch and tone like Carol King did back in the early seventies.
I raise my beer above the bar.
“A toast,” I say. “To a fine adventure with two of the finest fortunate unfortunates I know.”
“What the hell does that mean, Baker?” Edge asks.
“I think he means we’re lucky to be aliv
