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lights and decadence of the Quarter, far beyond the idyllic majesty of St. Charles Avenue, a profound and horrific stench was gripping the land.  And now on the heels of both Mardi Gras and the Super Bowl, the powers behind the throne of government continued to lull its citizens to sleep in order to preserve its tourist based economy.  What caused this madness?  What caused this destruction?  Was it really this ‘bath salt’ excuse that we were being fed, or something far more sinister?  A new wave of mental illness?  Something in the water?  Chemtrails?   Lafayette once said, “A hidden hand is guiding the populace.”   On this I agree.  On this I do agree…
     
    ***
     
    “Man will you please turn that thing off and give it a rest for once?” Nicodemus demanded. 
    Holding the recorder with a slight reluctance, Barabbas finally relented.  Documenting their exploits along with the recent developments gave him a slight sense of purpose.  Hopefully at some point in the future, someone would be able to make sense of all this… just in case .  The sweaty glass of Don Julio Blanco cheered him up a bit as he took a sip.  It was quite refreshing, but not enough to get his mind off what had occurred earlier.  Juan’s Flying Burrito, a home away from home for Barabbas, and also home to some of the sexiest waitresses Magazine St. had to offer.  Forget supermodels, actresses and rock stars.  There was something about an old school Irish Channel woman that drove Southern men naturally accustomed to appreciating such works of art crazy.  Forget tanning salons, hair extensions and breast implants.  Real women with real curves, tattoos and personality were where it was.  Yes sir, there was nothing like a New Orleans woman.  Nothing at all…not for anything in the civilized world.  Nicodemus could barely concentrate on his Corona with his attention distracted by the miles of legs prancing under tight skirts and aprons that moved about to and fro.
    “How long we’ve been doing this Nic?” Barabbas asked.  “Six months?”
    “Six months to be exact,” Nicodemus replied.  “What you driving at?”
    “When was the last time you saw one of those things move like that?” Barabbas asked.  “You really buying this bath salt nonsense?”
    “Hey man, it’s Florida,” Nicodemus argued.  “Between all the coke freaks and meth addicts, there’s no telling what other kind of poisons they’ve got down there.  Anything is possible.  I tell you one thing, I’m damn sure in no hurry to go back down there and find out.”
    Nicodemus had spent some time down in South Florida a few years back and hated every minute of it.  He said he wouldn’t go back even if Jesus Christ was down there signing autographs.  With all the stories about Florida in general and now this, Barabbas was inclined to agree.
    “What I do know is we need to be more prepared than usual if we’re going to clear more churches and storefronts,” Barabbas said.  “No more going out without shotguns, especially after today.”
    “Jesus Christ B, how many times am I gonna have to apologize for this?” Nicodemus asked.  “I’m bending over backwards here.  I told you Gabriel will hook us up, no problem.”  
    Gabriel was a family friend that had looked out for Barabbas and Nicodemus since their junior high school years.  An admirable man, one of those few old school types left in the neighborhood that was also a remarkable musician.  From his humble beginnings as a trumpet player in the historic Treme area, Gabriel rose to national fame and prominence.  Years later, a tragic twist of fate left him a bitter and lonely shell of his former self, forever living in the past and nearly senile.  When the apocalypse hit, Gabriel took to stock piling arms and personally looking out for Barabbas and Nicodemus as if they were his sons.  With all the rampant violence in the city, he was led to believe that the weapons were for