A Word to the Wise Before the Ride...
Heads up, you righteous freaks and you buttoned-down squares with a secret itch.
What you're about to ingest is not your mama's bedtime story, nor is it the six o'clock news spoon-fed to you by some talking head with a haircut you could set your watch to.
This is fictional nonfiction.
That means the so-called "objective truth" was left gagged and bound in the trunk of a rented convertible somewhere back on the interstate. We're riding dirty on a highway of pure, uncut subjectivity. The lines between the observer and the observed have been gleefully blurred with a fifth of cheap whiskey and a fistful of questionable pharmaceuticals.
So, let's be crystalline: the events depicted herein are filtered through a consciousness that may have been, at various points, chemically compromised, emotionally overwrought, and morally ambiguous. The quotes might be verbatim, or they might be the fever-dream echoes of what this correspondent wishes had been said. The timeline might occasionally loop back on itself like a serpent devouring its own tail.
This is a work of high-octane, low-road reportage. It's a savage journey into the belly of the beast, and the author is just as much a part of the menagerie as the freaks and felons on display. We make no apologies for the language, the raw nerves exposed, or the inconvenient truths that might crawl up your leg.
If you're looking for a safe, sanitized, and easily digestible narrative, for the love of God, turn back now. Go read a phone book. The management is not responsible for shattered illusions or any sudden, irreversible expansion of your consciousness.
You've been warned.