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	CLUE NUMBER ELEVEN (from Chicago): For the Hidden Journey: Violence is exothermic; hurt pride is the catalyst. For the Puzzle: Here is the eleventh set of 5 letters of the puzzle/cryptogram: b a i z i To solve the puzzle, collect the other 13 parts and assemble them in order. This is part 11.                                     The Story: Alex listens to me rant about how the Masters ought to stand naked in the rain, but he's too practical to get spiked about it. But you have to be careful not to torque his pride. I found that out in Chicago. It's late afternoon, bake-brain city, and there's more wind in Grandma's oven when she's baking chocolate chip cookies than there is in the Windy City. We fight our way through the thick downtown traffic and Lakeshore Drive, and then vector through some neighborhoods. Parts of Chicago are dirty, man. I don't mean old McDonald's wrappers in the gutter, I mean old brick walls that are greasy and black from a century of God knows what. We're tired of driving all day to get here, tired of the blasting heat, and tired of the stop-and-go bumper car ride through downtown, so when we spock this corner bar, the low, windowless kind with an old martini glass neon sign outside, we decide to stop for a beer. It just looks so hoboken, like the kind of place with a caveman behind the bar, that we think it would be crisp to try it. Plus we want a break to think about where to spend the night. Sure enough, there's a Neanderthal behind the bar, a squat guy with hairy arms and a patch of black fur poking through his half-opened shirt, and a few dim lights over fake red leather booths. There's big bowls of salted, unshelled peanuts set out on the tables, and the place smells like a peanut butter factory run by drunks. Two girls in tight dresses, a few years older than us and kind of cute, are sitting alone in one of the booths along the back wall. One is dark-saucy and mixed, like she could be from Hawaii, and her long hair is pulled into a shiny black pony tail that looks nectar against her creamy-lace dress. Her friend is stuffed into a little black party rag that looks about four hours ahead of the clock. There's nobody in the place because it's still afternoon, so we get two horse-piss-on-tap brews at the bar and then sit down at their booth. We're in our usual uniforms, me in a white T-shirt and blue jeans so nobody can see my skinny shark-bait legs, and Alex is wearing his "Shaka, brah" tanktop and surfer shorts. I start my "we're new in town" pitch and they look amused. I try the "we're from L.A. and he's from Hawaii" routine and they're almost laughing at us. So in desperation I remember the rule about being interested in them so I ask them where they work. They're smiling but stone silent. I'm thinking, what, have I got snot running down my face? I'm on the verge of asking them what the problem is when a greasy-haired big guy wearing a golf shirt and fancy darkened glasses saunters over from the entrance and says, "Okay, fun's over. Get lost." He has an accent I can't place and he smells like room freshener, plus he's wearing all these big-dollar rings. Normally I'd be narking his hoboken Hollywood Hood outfit and delivery, but he means it. I'm not sure who he's talking to, us or the girls, and I get a big splash of fear right on my shoulder blades, like a cold wave hitting you at the beach. (continued in Chapter Fifteen of I-State Lines) All content and coding copyright © 2006 by Charles Hugh Smith, all rights reserved
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