The Lizard, the Lemon, and the Louisv...

My kingdom for earplugs! That damn lizard won't shut up. The reptilian bastard, perched on that cracked motel ceiling, eyes like piss-yellow marbles. He's been at it for hours, a squawking prehistoric alarm clock sent by the FBI, or maybe Nixon himself. They're on to me, sniffing out the story like bloodhounds on a busted meth lab. The Big Story, the one that'll tear the roof off this godforsaken city and send the fat cats scattering.

Louisville, summer of '74. The air hangs heavy, a greasy stew of bourbon fumes and horse sweat. I'm here for the Derby, supposedly. Some horseflesh spectacle for the whiskey-soaked gentry, all bowties and seersucker. Me? I'm hunting bigger game. Something about the Mayor, a greased-up con-man with a smile like a sewer rat. A slush fund, a mistress with legs up to her chin, blackmail photos with a midget contortionist – classic politician filth. The evidence is there, I just need to flush the bastard out.

My motel room is a crime scene. Yellowed newspapers, empty bourbon bottles, ashtrays overflowing like diseased lungs. The carpet – Lord, the carpet – a battlefield of stains and burn holes, a Pollock painting by way of a trailer park brawl. The phone is a squawking beast, spitting out threats and gibberish. Probably the Feds trying to scramble my brainwaves. I unplug the damn thing, silence is golden. Or at least quieter than the lizard.

I need a fix. Not the usual. This ain't no recreational trip, this is about survival. I fish the vial out of my bag – pure pharmaceutical-grade mescaline, enough to turn a choirboy into a babbling Picasso. The lemon lays next to it, withered and sour, the key to unlocking the gates of perception, or so the good doctor said. That crazy bastard – they should have locked him up, not me.
One deep, shuddering breath, then a bite into the flesh of the lemon. The sourness is an electric shock to my brain. I swallow the mescaline, washing it down with a swig of stale bourbon. The lizard screeches, the walls start to throb. This is gonna get ugly.

The world melts. The ceiling ripples, the lizard dissolves into a swirling, neon vortex. The phone is a throbbing, carnivorous flower, ready to devour my hand. My reflection in the cracked mirror – Jesus Christ, it's Nixon! Same oily grin, the same shifty eyes. I'm unraveling, the paranoia twisting tighter than a hangman's noose.

Time warps. Minutes are centuries, and the hotel room transforms. One moment I'm ankle-deep in mint julep cups, the next I'm riding a stampede of wild-eyed thoroughbreds. A politician with a donkey head is ranting from the TV, promising nuclear rain and free lobotomies. Is it a hallucination, or a leaked White House transcript? With this city, it could be either.

The lizard, now the size of a goddamn Komodo dragon, is sermonizing from the ceiling, spouting gibberish philosophy mixed with racing results. I need air, need to shake off this madness. I stumble for the door, a battlefield hero fleeing the psychic carnage.

The streets of Louisville are a fever dream. The Derby crowds are a grotesque parade of bloated faces and pastel nightmares. The stench of sweat and cheap perfume is overpowering. I lurch down the sidewalk, the world tilting on its axis. Every corner, I expect the Feds to jump out, black suits and blacker sunglasses.

I find refuge in a dive bar, the kind of place where sunlight fears to tread. The jukebox is moaning some old Hank Williams tune, pure concentrated misery. I order a bourbon, then another. The bartender is a walking scar, an ex-boxer with eyes like busted headlights. We understand each other.

Hours bleed away. The visions fade, replaced by a dull, throbbing ache. I'm adrift, the Mayor and his dirty secrets lost in the chemical fog. But as I stumble back to the lizard-infested motel, a flicker of clarity breaks through.

It's not about the story, never was. It's the hunt, man, the wild goose chase in a city full of crooked mirrors. I'll never get the bastards, they're too slick, too entrenched. But for one glorious, mescaline-soaked bender... I almost felt alive.

Dawn breaks, and I'm back on the prowl. The city's waking up, shaking off its Derby hangover and getting back to the business of sin. Me? I'm running on fumes, paranoia, and a stubborn flicker of hope. Hope that maybe, just maybe, there's one honest soul hiding in this cesspool, one lead I haven't run into a dead end.

The hunt continues. Coffee shops where bleary-eyed politicos trade secrets over greasy eggs, racetrack stables reeking of sweat and desperation, city hall with its gleaming facade of respectability hiding a cesspool of backroom deals. Faces blur, voices swirl, but the truth remains elusive. A phantom, taunting me, always one step ahead.

But then again, maybe that's the point. With these bastards, the story ain't in the facts, it's in the feeling, man. The gut-punch of realizing how rigged the game is, how deep the rot goes. I may never nail the Mayor, may never crack open this city's dirty little heart. But for a few glorious, mescaline-fueled days, I chased the bastards. And brother, that chase was the only truth worth a damn.

Damn, that lizard's started up again.