Guadalupe (5)
#6 of Guadalupe (aka the Lumber Rave)
Part 5 - In which Maxwell endures a sudden epiphany regarding the legality of his actions, further severing his dwindling patience.
5.
The thought was conceived as if out of thin air.
Max wondered just how in fuck's name alcohol could be served so indiscriminately without a proper liquor license... then remembered that the rave, the dancing, the booze, the drugs; hell, just about everything involved with this hollow empty chassis had all been prime substantial bust material. No licenses, no permits, no interference from any higher authority figures...
No shit Sherlock, we're being served illegal beer in an illegal after-hours snort-and-screw orgy. How much more illegal can you get than that? Perhaps if these ravers re-enacted Greco-Roman arena battles?
In this private warehouse of widespread proportion and unbridled confidentiality, the truth had been that Max was involved in a strictly illegal practice to begin with and just sipping unlicensed shitty beer in a junkie's haven was the mere tip of the iceberg of confounding turmoil. If stepping foot in this heinous building had been a crime initially, Max should technically already have been charged with first-degree murder and possession of an illegal substance with full intent to sell. No authority figures, no number-crunchers and cold storage utilities, no jail-time incarceration or court hearings, no resolute income and certainly no community-based assistance. Just a "Guilty!" sentence and the minister's last rites; nothing more, nothing less.
This rave was a crash-course study on the prohibition era and how most of history's earliest humans had devised crafty plans to avert and bypass radical governmental jurisdictions involved with smuggling contraband items, live product deemed too racy for any other market other than the underground one to invest in. The rave had simply been another example of Atlantic City during the roaring twenties all over again, only with harder drugs, heavier music, denser alcohol and rougher, more passionately heated sex involved, enough to make a bootlegger's head explode with sublime glee.
If there were feds currently waiting outside to raid the establishment, they would overturn an absolutely humongous bust and the local county penitentiary - also known as The Hoosegow - would be filled to overcapacity overnight, an idea which pleased Oregon's local law enforcement agency to no end with shits and giggles aplenty; roll out them bonuses, baby. The top headlines in the next morning's paper would wind up printing these exposing and frankly damn embarrassing words for all to read: "RAVE BUST AT ABANDONED LUMBER WAREHOUSE: LARGEST IN MONTHS!"
Hell, this was nothing Max couldn't handle though, just another eventful human-interest piece to address, like they'd really give ten shits about his presence to begin with. Yet he couldn't help but feel an intangible regret upon being here in the first place.
Maxwell Blackburnadeaux's patience was nearly burnt to a crisp.