I had to admit, Firehands Jack—or Blake, as we’d come to know him—knew how to put on a show, nor was he without talent—as his electric rendition of AC/DC’s “Squealer” continued to prove while we watched from the hedgerow on the other side of Capitol Way and looked toward the Tivoli Fountain; which, while not actually on, had been filled with something—gasoline, maybe, based on the smell (although it was hard to tell through the powerful ammonia of the rex urine). None of which changed the fact that the psycho had lashed poor Penny to a cross while yet another totem stood nearby, its crucifee covered with a tarp so that we were left to wonder if it was, in fact, Fred. More—as if all that weren’t enough—the dude was playing his guitar from the top of my ‘71 Cuda while wearing a black Hallowe
