The hermit set out of camp at midnight, carrying his backpack and his bag of break-in tools, and threaded through the forest, rock to root to rock, every step memorized. Not a boot print left behind. It was cold and nearly moonless, a fine night for a raid, so he hiked about an hour to the Pine Tree summer camp, a few dozen cabins spread along the shoreline of North Pond in central Maine. With an expert twist of a screwdriver, he popped open a door of the dining hall and slipped inside, scanning the pantry shelves with his penlight.
The fat guy smoking Pall Malls, he says he almost married one of those girls. Honest. He met her in a bar one of the last times he was in the Philippines and fell in love, almost bought her a ring and took her home.
Spend a week or two in Tupelo, Mississippi, and you begin to wonder if the air down here perhaps contains an element that causes dreams to ignite and burn hotter and stranger than elsewhere in the world. What are the dreams that catch fire in this town?
Toodogs is on the run. “Catch me later,” he’ll say each time I approach, and then he disappears for a day. There are not a lot of places to hide. This is a six-acre island, 250 miles above the Arctic Circle, a few miles off the shore of Alaska in the Beaufort Sea—nothing but white ice, ghostly steam, cold steel. The temperature outside is thirty-eight degrees below zero, and now the wind is kicking up.
As Singapore Airlines flight 322 descended through the early-morning haze toward Heathrow, Bradley L. Garrett, Ph.D.—just Brad to his research subjects—looked out over the gray sprawl of London spreading to a horizon streaked by sunrise. He was returning from a monthlong study project in Cambodia, and seeing his adopted city of London again he thought about all the incomparably strange and wonderful things he had witnessed there over four years—all the dizzying heights and hidden depths.
Kid Rock knows something that you and I don't. He's figured out the secret—the dirty, nasty, well-kept secret of American life, which is that rednecks, in general, have more fun than uppity liberal folk like me. If you're a redneck, you're not dropping $2,300 a month to live in a Park Slope utility closet. The radio plays songs you actually like.
When you see the entrance to Marquee at 11 P.M. on a Saturday, you know why the promoters call this process "bringing the shitshow." Massing out front were, by my estimation, at least 2,000 people. Packs of Asian bachelorettes sucking on cock-and-balls lollipops. Pods of probably either Libyan or Italian princes of the overclass in blazers and exposed solar plexuses and calfskin loafers and Adrian Grenier knit caps.
Say you want someone, you know, eliminated —a lover, a business partner, a mother-in-law. There are guys out there who will do that. For a price. Then there's another kind of guy. A guy who looks and acts just like a regular hit man. Prison tats, do-rag. But instead of doing the job, he turns sides and then you realize that you were his target all along