ay Nineteen. Yesterday the Don said something about a "rendezvous in Panajachel" and mysteriously disappeared without a trace. A strange, gold-plated Pacer was seen leaving the lodge in a cloud of smoke. I flew from Flores to Cancun, found a cheap hotel, and spent one last day on the beach. Then I appropriated Don’s seat on an Aeromexico flight to New Orleans. These clowns failed to take Daylight Savings Time into account on the flight plan, so I missed a connecting flight to Minneapolis. Instead, I caught a flight to Memphis, Tennessee (where I swear I saw Elvis) and flew from there to Minneapolis, arriving late at night. Staff Drummer Bob "Crudey" called and suggested a pitcher and a game of pool or three at the local tavern The Roadhouse, where I related our exploits.

Crudey, now fully fueled, proposed to turn the Don’s vacant office into a bar/ massage parlor/ sex shop and I agreed to help. No word from the Don yet, but business is booming…
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[Interim editor’s note: Although Charley’s account ends here, our office recently received a postcard stamped "Panajachel, Guatemala" bearing the pictures of two roguish hippies and a young man in a toga surrounded by a crowd of young beautiful girls, bearing the inscription "Wish You Were Here… Not!" The man in a toga suspiciously resembles Don Trovatore, who has been declared "Missing In Inaction."]

"The Don disappeared and a strange gold-plated Pacer was seen leaving the lodge in a cloud of smoke…"
—Charley Hod