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- [00:00]
Jake Brennan
Foreign double Elvis.
- [00:08]
Disgraceland Host
Heading up to Boston in a couple weeks for the holidays. See my family. Happy to report that I will be rocking my responsible down hooded parka from Quince. This is the perfect parka for that whipping winter wind. It's going to keep the cold weather off me. It's going to keep me nice and cozy, going to give me those holiday vibes to take care of me while I'm in New England and I'm going to look good while I'm doing it. You know, I didn't have to take out a loan to buy this parka like you do with some other parkas because as I've been saying to you guys, Quint's pieces are crafted from premium materials and built to hold up without the luxury markup. Now I'm one of these guys who historically spends days, weeks, months looking for a winter jacket. I don't know why it feels like such a commitment to me. Like I'm going to buy a winter jacket and then I'm not going to buy a winter jacket for a couple years. Quint makes it super easy and it's Quint so you can trust the fit, you can trust the quality and the price is right. Also, I want to look good head to toe while I'm up with my family. I hook myself up at quints with cashmere trouser sock. Okay, these are fantastic. Also good for winter. Cannot go wrong. You can lock in your staples at quints no problem. Whether it's socks, whether it's underwear, whether it's sleepwear, get your wardrobe sorted and your gift list handled with quints.
- [01:25]
Jake Brennan
Don't wait.
- [01:25]
Disgraceland Host
Go to Quince.com Disgraceland for free shipping on your order and 365 day returns. Now available in Canada too. That's Q-U-I-N-C-E.com Disgraceland free shipping and 365 day returns quints.com Disgraceland guys, it's the silly season right now. The holidays. I'm spending way too much money spending money on travel, spending money on gifts, spending money on alcohol and food and just way more than I normally spend. And I'm sure that you guys can relate. It's easy to lose sight of your money and financial responsibility during this time of year. So if you want to keep your finances under control this holiday season, you need to be using Monarch, rated Wall Street Journal's Best Best Budgeting App of 2025. Monarch is the all in one personal finance tool that brings your entire financial life together in one clean interface on your laptop or your phone. And right now, just for our listeners, Monarch is offering 50% off your first year. We are just at the beginning of the holiday season. I've already used Monarch to successfully help me rein in mine and my wife's spending. But I can see everything clearly and cleanly with the Monarch interface. And I can align what I'm spending on holiday gifts against my regular monthly expenses, my savings. I can see everything. It's your own little financial Millennium Falcon. You're just sitting there. You're in control. The last thing I want to do is be digging out of a financial hole at the beginning of the new year. That is not something I want. So Monarch is helping me keep it tight. Monarch is built for people like me, for people like you with busy lives. Monarch is going to link all of your accounts in minutes. You're going to get clear data, visuals, smart categorization of your spending. Like I said, in real control over your money. No messing around with spreadsheets, okay? Don't leave money on the table. When you're making good money, it's easy to get complacent. Monarch is going to help you stay informed so nothing slips through the cracks. Don't let financial opportunity slip through the cracks, guys. Use code disgraceland@monarch.com in your browser for half off your first year. That's 50% off your first first year@monarch.com with code disgraceland.
- [03:42]
Julian
Thanks to TikTok ads, I was able to open up a business with my childhood friend and even hire employees. My name is Julian and I am one of the founders of the Snacks Lab. We are an exotic snack company. We import snacks from all over the world. We had over $100,000 in sales from our TikTok ads in the first month. So our orders went from five a day to over 250 orders a day. You definitely have to use TikTok ads.
- [04:04]
Jake Brennan
TikTok for business is helping owners like you reach new customers every day. Head over to get started.TikTok.com tiktokapps Disgraceland is a production of Double Elvis. Heads up everybody. This is not your typical Disgraceland episode where we tell the story of a musician through the true crimes they committed or that were committed to them. For this two part episode on the Velvet Underground's Lou Reed, we are doing something different to honor Lou's habit of basically lying and exaggerating his way through most interviews about his past. We examine Lou's origin story in the Velvet Underground through the crimes, criminals and transgressive behavior depicted in Lou's Velvet Underground lyrics to explore what really inspired Lou Reed, one of the greatest rock and roll characters of all time, to create some of the coolest and most influential music of all time. All right, lets get into it. The stories Lou Reed told in his Velvet Underground songs are insane. Manslaughter in the song the Gift, sadomasochism and sexual deviancy in the song Venus Infers. Drug abuse in heroin and I'm Waiting for the Man. Prostitution in the song There She Goes Again. And of course, murder in the murder mystery in the stories Lou Reed told about himself to the rock press. Those were insane too. That he once put a rifle to a man's head. That his parents forced him to undergo electroshock treatments because he was gay. That he graduated from Harvard. Not sure why I would brag about that one, but I digress. Lou Reed was once quoted as saying, I've lied so much about the past, I can't even tell myself what is true anymore. The point is, Lou Reed told tall tales, both in song and in real life. And you know what? That's fucking awesome. The best rock stars are expert stewards of their own myths. Lou Reed, like Bob Dylan, David Bowie and Kurt Cobain, mastered this skill because he studied the storytelling mastery of writers such as Raymond chandler, Hubert Selby Jr. And William S. Burroughs. Lou combined their transgressive influence with his own subversive coming of age experiences in mid-60s Manhattan as he wrote the lyrics for his band, the Velvet Underground. Make no mistake, this is not a Velvet Underground episode though. This is a Lou Reed origin story that takes place during his time in the beginning days of the Velvets, A time when Lou Reed was making his first great music. Unlike that music I played for you at the top of the show, that wasn't great music. That was a preset loop from my melotron called Slow Drag MK1. I played you that loot because I can't afford the rights to Love is Here and now you're Gone by the Supremes. And why would I play you that specific slice of stupid the Boss at Motown Cheese? Could I afford it? Because that was the number one song in America on March 12, 1967. And that was the day that Lou Reed's Velvet Underground released their first album and forever changed modern music. On this episode, a multitude of mid-60s Manhattan transgressions, a murder mystery, sadomasochism, drug abuse, and the tall tale of the Velvet Underground's Lou Reed. I'm Jake Brennan and this is disgrace. I was two sips into a lukewarm Maxwell House when Marsha Bronson's beauty finally revealed itself. Prior to that, the white light of trauma and the white heat of guilt, Marsha wore both like a ghost. And as such, she was nearly invisible to me. But that was then. Here in the now, the Sunday morning sunlight shone through her mother's Long island kitchen window and revealed the truth. I was unnerved. She was young, 19. But I wasn't surprised. Marsha's mother was once a beauty, too. Now she was an undiagnosed manic depressive, over prescribed on lithium, Only two more nervous breakdowns away from electroshock therapy. Marsha's father was an old army connection. Now he was a bull out at Rikers. A mean son of a bitch. And this morning, Big Bill Bronson was especially angry. His daughter's boyfriend, Waldo Jeffers, was dead. His daughter, Marsha Bronson, was accused of killing him. And if I didn't get her off, her father would put me in a box. I owed him. It was a large debt, the kind you take on at war where Jesus looks the other way and you accrue debts you can never pay off despite your better angels. I had other debts too. The kind you take on downtown where Uncle Dave passes your pony debts off to Italian roughnecks with horse cocks and crooked noses. Those guys got paid or else I needed money. Except Big Bill wasn't paying for this piece of work. Like I said, Big Bill was collecting. That meant I was hustling for him until I got his daughter off. If only Waldo could have done the same, I wouldn't be in this mess. And that was Waldo's problem. He waited for it his whole life. He never took it. So when the time came to go out and get it, Waldo wound up dead in a box. Waldo descended from Locust, Pennsylvania. He met Marsha at college in Wisconsin. When semester broke, Waldo headed back to Pa And Marcia, after a brief rendezvous with Waldo in Manhattan, returned to her off campus apartment in Wisconsin. Rather than spending the summer with her parents out on Long Island, Marsha swore to Waldo she'd be faithful. She lied. Waldo bought it. Marsha called, but only twice. She wrote too, but again only twice. The way Marcia saw it, Waldo's insecurity and imagination got the best of him. He was the jealous type. Anyone could see it and prone to nightmares. Marsha said he couldn't sleep. Said this was just the type of dumb, love struck shitheel thing Waldo would do too, but that he wouldn't have done it Alone. And if I, Reidmont Allen Lewis, Ace to my friends, Ace Lewis to my clients, if I was worth the ink on my private dick's license, then I could prove, oh, Waldo had a conspirator. Not just an accomplice, someone who put him up to it. And if I could prove that, then I could shift the blame away from Marsha and Big Bill would be satisfied. And I, well, I could get back to my ponies, make back my role and put some space between me and no Nose Nuncio. But back to Waldo. Never one to sit at the head of the class, the idea was too simple for him to come to alone and too daring for him to do on his own, without prodding. Waldo, despite mowing and edging the Edison's lawn for A$50 every other week, was broke. And there was no way he could afford a bus ticket to Wisconsin to surprise Marcia. So the idea was to mail himself there in a cardboard box, staple gunned and pack, taped, delivered to the attention of Marsha Bronson, care of the Clarence Darrow Post Office, Madison, Wisconsin, all the way from the great state of Pennsylvania. When Marsha opened the box upon delivery and Waldo emerged from inside, they'd be reunited and overtaken by love. Or so Waldo thought. The night before he arrived in a box via the US Mail, Marsha spent the better part of the evening in the back seat of a 66 Mustang, fighting off a boy named Bill's Octopus Arms. She liked them, but with that name, he couldn't help but remind her of her dad. And for her dad, she put up a fight, resisting young Bill's advances. But eventually, the daiquiris won out. Marsha gave up the fight and submitted to the caresses of sexual oblivion. This morning she didn't regret it, but she did regret her hangover. And when the package arrived with Waldo, her boyfriend, hidden inside, beaming with desperation, Marsha and her roommate Sheila struggled to open it. Inside, Waldo choked down an excited squeal. He was on his knees, perched like an obedient puppy in anticipation of a treat. Marsha, with some regret, noted the return address was from Waldo. Sheila asked Marsha why she still bothered with that schmuck. Waldo took it like a bullet to the gut. But Marcia tugged at the box's flap and it refused to open. She shuffled into the kitchen for some scissors, and those didn't work either. She remembered there were old tools in the garage. Marsha settled on the first large, capable tool she could find. An old sheet metal cutter. It was pre war, just like me and Marsha's dad. It was special vintage. Its shears stretched 8 inches. Waldo, in the box, was so excited he could hardly breathe. Marsha tried cutting into the taped edge of the box, but the sheet metal shears were too old and offered little action. And with her hangover calling the shots, Marsha stood in impatiently above the box. She raised the sheet metal cutter over her head with two hands and brought it down in one giant stabbing motion with the entire weight of her body right through the middle of the package, through the masking tape, through the cardboard, through the packing cushion, and straight to the top of Waldo Jeffers head. When they found O Waldo in that box, the sheet metal cutter was sticking straight out of his skull. The two sides of his head had split slightly, just as a watermelon would. Waldo was dead. Marsha killed him. And if I didn't prove that she didn't, I'd be dead too.
- [14:45]
Ryan Reynolds
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- [15:06]
Commercial Voice
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- [15:16]
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- [15:39]
Julian
So good, so good, so good.
- [15:42]
Commercial Voice
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- [15:53]
How did I not know rack has Adidas?
- [15:55]
Jake Brennan
There's always something new.
- [15:56]
Commercial Voice
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- [16:09]
Jake Brennan
In 1967, New York City, the avant garde rock and roll band the Velvet Underground recorded the song the Gift about the troublesome death of Waldo Jeffers at the confused hand of his college sweetheart Marsha Bronson. The Velvet Underground's Me. Singer songwriter Lou Reed found his inspiration for the gift in the story of Waldo Jeffers death depicted in the Daily News. The details of the true crime screamed off the pages of the newspaper at the student poet cum musician. It was the exact inspiration the 23 year old needed.
- [16:41]
Stephanie
Upstarts the Velvet Underground were at the.
- [16:43]
Jake Brennan
Time in 1965 in need of an.
- [16:46]
Stephanie
Identity and Lou found it in the.
- [16:48]
Jake Brennan
Gritty cracks of mid century Manhattan with all of its grime, vice and beatnik subversiveness. Lou Reed embodied the city he called.
- [16:55]
Stephanie
Home and he knew how to hustle.
- [16:57]
Jake Brennan
Inspiration from the pages of a daily rag into one of his songs.
- [17:00]
Stephanie
The Velvet Underground were on their way to where? I didn't know. All I knew was that Lou was.
- [17:06]
Jake Brennan
The perfect patsy and when I was.
- [17:08]
Stephanie
Done with him Marshall would be free and Big Bill and me, we'd be square.
- [17:16]
Jake Brennan
They smashed my head face first into the dirty window of the Union Square Diner. That's when I saw him sitting at the counter. He saw me too, briefly. And then he looked away as did the other patrons. But Lou looked back at his newspaper and the others just stared off into sweet nothing, caffeinated and vacant. I could tell in that instant that Lou was different, alive, outside, beardless. Harry turned me around and stood me up straight. Backed my shoulders into a lamppost and let loose with a wild left. It was half of what he was good for. I'd get the rest in three days if I didn't have Nuncio's vig. Harry delivered his promise with his trademark stutter. I understood him better than most. Harry didn't want to deliver on his promise. He was just doing his job. But he'd be back and he'd make it worth his cab fare next time. I believed him on that account too. Harry scatter mooched. I shook it off, collected myself. Dragged the heat of the New York night into the diner with me. I counted two absent glances from the Nighthawks and not one from Lou. I slid into a booth with an easy sight line toward the counter, close enough to read the large print on his Daily News but far enough away where I couldn't discern the smell of his Lucky from the rest of the smoke hanging under the low ceiling. Lou wore the quilted collar of his leather bomber up high against the back of his neck as if to say don't bother me. I took my cue. I was content to observe. Lou was like a cool breeze. Even sitting there in the diner. He iced out the bustle and somehow charmed the waitress with the stony glare as she refilled his cup. The Puerto Rican busboy, a real switchblade type named Jesus, sweated over the way Lou filled out his Levi's there on the vinyl top bar stool. Liu was aware of the attention and he welcomed it. Some jungle rhythm that I couldn't pretend to understand poured out of the jukebox under the high pitched squeal of a doper horn. I cringed, but Lou played easy, tapping in time with the exposed steel toe of his elevator boot against the bottom of the stool stand. The frozen pad of butter on the edge of his knife hit his mouth minus the toast, and didn't stand a chance. The butter was all he needed, all he could really stand, and my hunch was confirmed. In my business, most times all you have is a hunch. Your gut. But my gut told me that if Lou Reed didn't do it, and I knew he didn't, then he sure as could have done it. And besides, either way, that little Long island piss ant was guilty of something. And surely that had a matter somewhat whether or not he did or didn't conspire with Waldo Jeffers to pull that cockamamie stunt that wound up old Waldo in a box. Didn't matter to me. Me. What mattered to me was, like I said, that he could have conspired with his former childhood neighbor to do such a thing. It was the potential. That's where the percentage was. Odds were Lou was thinking the same thing right now, reading his daily news, sipping his sludge, meditating on Big Bill's Beauty Queen and all that. Baby, baby, where did our love go? Horseshit. They sell soft and nickel seabergs like the one in the corner. I hated the noise but was still able to settle into the familiar calm of the greasy spoon. And just when I was beginning to see the light of a future without downtown debts, my past blew through the diner door like an uptown Adrian. She collapsed into my booth, grabbed my cup of joe, brought it to her lips, took a loud slurp, and never once broke eye contact with me. She put the mug back onto the saucer. Got no kick. What's it morning to you? The Post midnight hour made its smart ass, and a slight curl of her lips made it all right. Nah, I said. I'm working. She looked around, made Liu in an instant Leather boy at the counter. Ding ding ding. Dorothy, we have a correct answer. What did he do? She asked. Doesn't matter, I responded. What do you want? Money, she said. What did she ever want? And I owed it to her. Whether or not. The kid was mine. It was coming one way or another. And she was just a kid too, practically no next answer. Kin? No, no one. Just me and an old pimp on the out who took that queen for a day thing too far now. Went by the name Do Run Rhonda. She he couldn't even pimp right. So young Pearly May here, Stephanie was her name when she was off the street. She, who was maybe the soon to be mother of my child, was out of a job and it wasn't as though she was employable anymore anyway, so money was the least I could do for her. I said to her, I got an idea. Want to play cops and robbers? She turned her mouth into a scowl. For old times sake, I said. You that broke? She asked twice as much. How bad? She wanted to know. Not so bad as I need to take it on the arches. I've got something. I'm working. Leather boy's got bread, she said, nodding to Lou at the counter. How do you know? I asked. A girl's gotta eat, she replied. At least he's got bread at the moment he's about to blow his wad. I stared at her and sipped my coffee, and when I was done I let the silence work its gravity on what I was about to say next. I ain't no hustler. The streets are your game. I'll help you out as best I can when I can, and that way one of those times when I can. But all tomorrow's parties are lined with silks and linens of yesterday's gowns. You help me out now with work and I'll help you out when I land this bucket of bolts. She grabbed my coffee cup again and drained it in one go. Do I have a choice? She asked. Not if you want to get eat tonight you don't. I pushed my plate over to her side of the table. She set about devouring the dry toast and runny eggs and called for the waitress to bring her tomato juice. Stephanie spoke in short grunts in the microseconds between chewing and swallowing. Leather boy. He's got a jones, I figured, I said. He also likes the Vaseline boys, I also figured, but that's beside the point right now. Why's that? I want him to know. She finished my plate and then she said, because in about four seconds that pretty young waitress over there is about to make change for your man. Then he's going to lay that change on the rest of his short stack and that stack is going to total $26 in his hand and then your man is going to head uptown to wait for his man. I smiled at her and then I said, remind me again why we ain't married. She responded by saying, you're a degenerate gambler and I'm an out of work working girl. Oh yeah? I said. She smiled. Leather boy collected the smokes and hit the street and we ditched on the bill and hustled out behind him. We'll be right back after this.
- [23:27]
McAfee User
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- [23:32]
Commercial Voice
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- [24:01]
McAfee User
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- [24:13]
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- [24:18]
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- [25:03]
Jake Brennan
Lexington Avenue and 125th street the morning sun was in the sky, but it only wanted to shine on the better half of Manhattan. Lou leaned uneasy on a lamp post. That bohemian cool breeze schtick played differently up here in Harlem. Hey, white boy. What are you doing uptown? We hung back in a doorway across the street and watched him try to worm his way out of the question. Nothing. Just waiting on a friend. That right? The local just stared with menace. Liu shifted awkwardly in his tight cuff denim. You chasing our women around? Furthest from my mind. And then Lou laid it on a touch too thick, finishing his sentence with.
- [25:44]
Stephanie
Sir, Fuck you call me white boy.
- [25:46]
Jake Brennan
The local pulled his blade. I started to step out of the doorway and toward the street to intervene in what would most certainly end with me lying in St. Luke's like a stuck pig. Stephanie braced me with one arm, stopping my progress, leveling a steady hand in mid air as if to say, cool out, and she never took her eyes off Liu and the local. Hold up, she whispered. Lou's cool. And he was. Liu grinned at the local's knife. His smile, combined with the matter of fact tone of his voice, cooled the heat on the street. I'm just looking for a dear friend of mine, liu said. The local lowered his knife cool, and waltzed down 125. Liu kept his lamp post lean strong, and stared down the street. I could practically hear his spine stiffen when he saw his man. There he was, all dressed in black PR shoes, big straw hat. Lou checked his wristwatch. His man was right on time. Never early, always late. They traded quick nods for hellos and bounded up the brownstone stairs. Lou emerged 90 minutes later, noticeably groggy and staggering his steps over to Lexington. He descended down the subway steps for a downtown train. Stephanie and I gave loose chase. Lou's senses were dulled. He wasn't gonna make us, so we stayed closer than normal. I was two bodies behind him on the train, hanging from a subway strap, and I could practically smell the innocence on him. He was young, naive, and clearly mixing himself up in the kind of city any danger that forever leaves a mark. He wanted it, though. I could see it in his dope smacked eyes. Stephanie nudged me and nodded for me to follow her to the back of the train. We moved into a couple of empty seats, close enough where I could still clock Lou, far enough away where he couldn't hear us over the subterranean rumble and squeal. She got right to the point.
- [27:35]
Stephanie
What do you want with him?
- [27:36]
Jake Brennan
Got a client likes him for something. Something, huh?
- [27:40]
Stephanie
Unless it's, say, it's something in the realm of transgressive possibilities this little shitheel.
- [27:44]
Jake Brennan
Would evolve himself in.
- [27:47]
Stephanie
When did you become a what?
- [27:48]
Jake Brennan
A kind of man? That stung. In my business you rely on gut, the certainty of your gut. Not on percentages, not on possibilities. That was lawyer work. Weasel sweat. I gave it to her sideways when.
- [28:03]
Stephanie
I became a wanted man downtown. When I became a wooden, coulda, shoulda, just might, maybe be a father type of man.
- [28:09]
Jake Brennan
Bullshit. She scowled and looked away. Look, I said.
- [28:13]
Stephanie
The kid's dirty one way or another.
- [28:15]
Jake Brennan
Look at him.
- [28:16]
Stephanie
He could barely stand. Guy I know, dear friend. His daughter's just a kid like you. She's on a thread. DA is gonna pull that thread. She's gonna spend her early 20s and the rest of her life behind bars. She has no business being behind behind bars. Our boy Lou here is destined for anyway.
- [28:33]
Jake Brennan
She gave me a look of disgust and said, if you say so. I do say so. She then said, well, if that's the.
- [28:40]
Stephanie
Way you want to play it, you better be ready for what comes next. What's that?
- [28:45]
Jake Brennan
I asked. And then the train screeched to a stop. We hit the street farther back than I would have liked. Liu was moving fast. He quickly ascended the stairs and then headed down St. Mark's Place and eventually to a St. Mark's apartment building. We went in behind him, but he was gone. Every door in the hall was black except for the one in the back. White light exploded from its crease. We opened it slowly. The white heat from the bodies inside smacked Stephanie and I in the face. Music blared. No one noticed us. The space was completely open. No rooms, just open space. Couches lined, the walls peppered with young, beautiful, androgynous, entangled bodies. There was a band against the far wall making excruciating noise. Apparently I was the only one whose ears were bleeding. More white light, this from film projectors blasting images onto the band and the wall behind it. Grotesque, hedonistic images. Bodies writhe on the dance floor, mirroring the celluloid action. A man in a white wig and dark glasses who reminded me of one of those portside Shore Leaf boy toys, seemed to be in charge of everything. Where the hell was I? On the makeshift stage, a tall, icy blonde gently tapped tambourine. Three members of what looked like the Addams Family made their instruments scream for help behind her, while a little boy with a penny haircut banged on a disassembled drum kit spread out on the floor. I turned to Stephanie. Stephanie. And screamed over the music into her ear.
- [30:17]
Stephanie
Someone ought to call the Bureau of.
- [30:19]
Jake Brennan
Child Welfare, nodding to the little boy playing drums amidst the intensely adult bacchanalia. Stephanie yelled back, informing me that the drummer was actually a full grown woman, not a little boy. I thought of Joe Namath, who repressed the urge to spit. Recognize anyone else? Stephanie asked. I did. Our boy Lou on stage. The black sunglasses that doubled as a blindfold wrap electric guitar hung high up on his chest. He used it to assault the audience, and at the same time he spoke softly into the microphone in a manner that suggested singing, though I couldn't really be sure. The band tightened up and brought it down. Lou's words were shocking because it makes me feel just like a man. When I put a spike into my vein. The dance floor and front of him opened up. One man, if you could call him that, a real mess hall beauty queen went into full performance mode in leather chaps. He seduced the disinterested audience with a bullwhip. It was all show, a big Howdy Doody production, a bunch of kids whose parents didn't give him enough love crying out for attention. But in the shadows, back against the wall, things were darker. What Lou copped up in Harlem, what Lou sang about up on the that stage, was what a number of couch criminals were currently jamming into their arms with real life spikes and nodding off into sweet nothing on those who had already come out on the other side worked out their colonel energy on one another right there in public, riding on top of each other, licking boots, grinding heels into flesh. And back on the dance floor, mess hall Mary mock crucified him herself. I'd seen enough. The band rapped, Lou plopped onto Cliff a couch, and I needed a drink. He wasn't going anywhere, so I hit the door behind the makeshift stage in search of something wet. What I got was darkness. More bodies, more insufferable noise passed off as music. But this vibe was different, more subdued, thick with something that could put a chill on your spine. Someone handed me a drink and I thought nothing of it and threw it back. I felt it quick, a million tiny bullets speeding up my bloodstream and moving through my brain, messing up my mind, and that tickled down to my toes just like the South Korean pet pills we took in the war with times a thousand. The feeling was familiar but euphoric. Suddenly nothing mattered. Not Liu, not Bill, not for nothing. No nose. Nunzio neither, nor maybe baby Stephanie. They all drifted away and I stumbled onto a sofa. I felt a man fall down close to me. He was snug against my side. I could barely see through the vapors and trails of the spinning room's light revolutions. On his chest the gold nameplate hung from a gold chain. In cursive letters it read Jesus. Jesus stared into my pinprick eyes. He was not forgiving me for anything. I felt the sharp steel against my belly. A little switch, no doubt. Your wallet, motherfucker. I heard him, but I was powerless to move whatever speed was working through my system at the moment. It was cut with something debilitating that bore down on my shoulders and held me in place with fear, paranoia, and psychosis. It was Liu. He took his cool hands off my shoulders, circled around the couch and squeezed in between me and Jesus, defusing the switchblade drama in the process. Jesus wandered. Liu looked at me with eyes I couldn't place familiar, but so far away, like an old actor's name on the tip of your tongue. Then Mess Hall Mary arrived fresh off the dance floor and squeezed in between Lou and I. Lou grabbed my eyes with his. He swung his arm around mess Hall Mary, pulled him her in locked lips, engaged in one of those overacted big Hollywood kisses, and never once broke eye contact with me. And that's when the room went black.
- [34:07]
Disgraceland Host
Sa.
- [34:37]
Jake Brennan
I woke up in blackness. I saw nothing, but I could hear their screams. Women and children, their flesh burning right off of their bones. The result of our American GI torches, the ones we couldn't burn, though we drown. North Korea was no beach blanket. Bingo. They never stood at all chance. The ones we couldn't throw from the Sock Tank bridge we held down underwater with our bare hands in the Sowon Reservoir. Then there were the wild dogs. Can't take credit for that one. And frankly, I would have preferred to have avoided that whole mess. Some South Korean brass got that idea. Jesus Christ, son, what a mess. You thought people feared being burned alive or drowning? Nothing brought more more instant horror than a pack of wild flesh eating dogs, teeth bared, starved for days and willing to do anything except skip their next meal, they tore through civilian skin and bone. Women and children first. Commies had no sense of honor, not even in defeat. Their screams never stopped. Not then, not now. My headache was familiar. It was more of a reminder than anything else. A reminder of the impending pain about to come. The sweats, the chills, the body aches, the nausea, the uncontrollable twitching. Lou wasn't the only one. I had my own Jones. Hadn't felt it since just after the war, but there it was, back to say, hey, ho, let's go little buddy. It's been a bit of a moment and you thought you had me licked. But I'm all always here, waiting for the right moment to make an appearance to show up and let you know just who's boss. And that moment was now my South Korean pep pill habit during the war, a habit picked up to stay awake on long overnights discharged me as a real American amphetamine Archie. Couldn't live without those little beauties when I got home. But cold turkey set me straight. Last night, though, whatever was in that drink speed was definitely at the top of the list. And now my Jones was back, triggered by the juice job, whipped up by one of those Fire Island A heads. So my new reality was this if I wanted to get my head straight, I had two options. Number one, sweat out the jones and waste two or three days crashed and drying out. Number two, grab a pill, speed my headache into oblivion and get back on the case without wasting any real time. Option two was clearly the best option. I'd take half a hit, just enough to kill the jones, then gradually reduce my intake from there until I solve this thing for Big Bill and be done with the pills after that. Option number two is problem number one. I had no speed and I had no idea where to get any speed. Maybe Lou did, though heroin seemed to be his game. Maybe one of his bandmates did. They certainly looked like speed freaks. Well, most of them. That blonde femme fatale with the tambourine was strictly downers. I tried opening my eyes, but they wouldn't cooperate. They were caked shut. That's when the smell hit me. And the taste. That smell, that taste. The feeling of whatever was caking my eyes shut. It was a Sinchon massacre. All over it was blood. I sat up with a shot, took my fingers and peeled my eyelids back. The slight crinkle of separating flesh gave way to a darkened vision. I gagged and spit up someone else's blood. I snorted in air through my nostrils, pushing more blood down the back of my throat and then out of my mouth in heavy sprays. I looked around the loft from the previous night's party. Darkness all around. The only illumination coming from the space between the front door and the hallway. White light. Up close to that light, I could partially make out a figure slumped against the wall. I stumbled to 15 or 20ft or so over time to it. My shoes slipped on something slick. I hit the floor with a thud. I was now rolling in blood, covered in the irony, molasses. I gagged. I heaved my headaches, screamed. I got up. I fell down again. More blood on my face, on my palms. I pressed myself to my hands and my knees and crawled through the pool to the slumped figure against the wall. Oh, sweet nothing. Don't let it be. Not now. We were so close. But there she was. There. There they were. Stephanie and her unborn child. My unborn child. Both dead. A switchblade stuck straight out from her chest. Her torso was as perforated as a pasta strainer. Her blood pooled all around her. And despite the instant horror, I remained calm. Trauma always slowed my world down. And right now, with my head, it's exactly what I needed. Besides, I'd actually seen worse. Much worse. I grabbed Stephanie and pulled her close Even though she always said she's not afraid to die, the fact that this was our last embrace still stung. I patted down the frizzy locks on her head. I whispered to her and mangled our father and caressed her cheek. That's when I felt it. Something unnatural in her mouth. I felt my stomach drop. I pried open her jaws and reached in with my hand. I pulled out a wad of bills. Stephanie, in addition to being stabbed full of countless holes, had been gagged. I closed my eyes, but it didn't help and the tears came quick and my diaphragm sputtered and my chest heaved as I sobbed uncontrollably. I opened my eyes and looked down at what I pulled from Stephanie's mouth, $26 in my hand. This murder mystery in this episode of Disgraceland is to be continued. Disgraceland was created by yours truly and is produced in partnership with Double Elvis. Credits for this episode can be found.
- [40:33]
Disgraceland Host
On the Show Notes below page@gracelandpod.com if you're listening as a Disgraceland All Access.
- [40:39]
Jake Brennan
Member, thank you for supporting the show.
- [40:41]
Disgraceland Host
We really appreciate it. And if not, you can become a member right now by going to Disgracelandpod.com membership members can listen to every episode of Disgraceland Ad Free. Plus you'll get one brand new exclusive episode every month. Weekly unscripted bonus episodes, special audio collection, special and early access to merchandise and events. Visit disgracelandpod.com membership for details, rate and review the show and follow us on Instagram, TikTok, Twitter and Facebook Disgracelandpod and on YouTube@YouTube.com Gracelandpod Rocka Rolla He's a bad, bad man.
- [41:23]
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