Rumblitis--Chapter Fourteen (Chief Me)

  
   As always--my books:  King's Books! 
  
   FOURTEEN:
  
   Ray Rumble snapped into the venomous vibrancy of AWAKE--Xelba's profane utterances driving him consciouswards, for he should've religiously retained a sturdy sanctity for her resonating soul; however, he was filled with mirth yesterday, and that grants ominous payback from any haunting ghoul, no matter how gorgeous or loving.
   "Shit--I'm sorry Xelba."  Ray cried.
   So, wishing he had put cannabis in the medically free peace pipe of Montana, known as "The Last Best Place", 4th in American Size, yet 48th in population density, singing Shamanistic songs, perhaps poltergeisting Ray a bit bizarre.  Furthermore, the ex-punter recalled certain, non-canonized Saints of the American Indian Variety, especially WHITE MAN RUNS HIM--the enduring Crow Scout having braved and survived George Armstrong Custer's 1876 expedition against the ultimate human fighting machines dubbed the Sioux, this further fabricating a high cheekbone Montana legacy; moreover, WHITE MAN RUNS HIM would've been selected by Andy Warhol's wild and wasted mind if corporeal existence had thrived him into the buzzed 60's; still, WHITE MAN RUNS HIM entered the mystical trance of sub-cultural Hollywood in 1927, briefly appearing in a fabulous flick known as RED RAIDERS, all while possibly residing near Lodge Grass, yet mythology lurks around the red-hued warriors, and Ray granted reverence to altered states of consciousness, though knowing that rarely did the Red Man arrive there by way of the frustrating FIREWATER.
   As a result of all this historical implantation of Montana memory, if it was really Montana, Ray figured he may take a break from the booze, getting off the sauce for a bit, finding a local Shaman to reveal introspect and shit like that.  For those crazy ass Injuns have sincere creativity in contacting the sublimity and malevolence of spirits, disregarding Buddha's Neutrality of it All, yet Ray did not want to interact with Real People, knowing a Psychopomp "Guide of Souls" would enlighten in a more pragmatic sense for the psychotic activity of his common sense-lacking mind.  But would the Hebrew Engine known as Christ be pissed, or open an alternative direction into the Father's Heart?  Regardless, Ray put a feather in his salt and pepper hair; then, blew a kiss to Christ, doing the synergy of mysticism, knowing:  "What the Hell."  Something Jack Burton, confined within the internal cockpit of THE PORKCHOP EXPRESS used to say, lov'n them Chinese.  And again Ray recollected:  (NKJV) John 14:6--the Holy Fabric of Christ expressing:  "No one comes to the Father but through Me."  So, maybe he would start, immediately, drinking again, finding favor in intoxication like JIMBO and them DOORS, for that was Christ gone Shamanistic, totally, though culminating in a Serpent's Kiss.