At Circus, Circus any drunk with $1.25 can appear on a huge screen ala Shape of Things to Come (movie, not book). So they paid and flashed themselves in the wonderful setting. They gonna snap tongue at him, that may even have been accurate.

The Circus, Circus crowd of depressed wives and kids and Las Vegas winos smelled the blue wolverine poppers. Amyl nitrite and musk. Promise of penetrated rectums and vaginas gone gamy and brain cells exploding in interior nova before the big brainless night. They smell the poppers and they see the poppers in his hand on the big screen. And they mob the booth almost before he draws forth his pine cone-tipped wand and she drops her clothes.

One of the winos hands him a plastic ivy wreath and he gives the wino a popper. The wino breaks the popper, the crowd roars. The wino runs out on all fours to bay at the neon night.

The first fuzz arrives, tipped off by the strange sensitivity the fuzz always has for the gnosis. The Maenads fall on them ripping them to bloody blue fragments.

He steps out of the video booth and the picture fades. Somewhere drum music and pipe music and syrinx music boils in. Some of the men shed their grease-caked wino clothes and are handed wolfskins. If you pass Calpurnia on the sacred run lash her barrenness away.

His faun eyes scan the old men. One is missing. His procession dances into the street. Onlookers come in dribs and drabs and finally a great peopled tide from the Sands and the Stardust and Caesar's Palace. Entertainers hoot and bray at their disappearing audiences and blue-haired matrons converge upon them to tear the eyes from the blasphemers.

There's a little adobe mission not far from the Strip where Sam, the oldest wino, sleeps. One day in '55 be drove in from New York en route to a deal in L.A. to lose everything to sleep in the mission in the gutters in backyard trampolines anywhere.

Dionysius' procession pauses in front of the mission. The god enters, smiles in Sam's bleary eyes. Waves his hand and Sam's pants fall, exposing dark-haired goat's legs. Someone presses a wineskin in the satyr's wrinkled hands. Others lift him onto a donkey liberated from the Las Vegas zoo. Silenus.

The procession disappears into friezes and vases and plays and poems.