Fedo, "I once sewed a passed out Pat Works to the mattress in a motel down in Guadalajara Mexico. Remember that Pat? I don’t think any one that was there could forget that party!!" (Fedo SCR155).
It wasn't my fault. I drank much Mescal, became eight feet tall, and made of iron. A birthright of Texans.
Early 70's the Latin Skydivers did a charity show for orphans & so Fedo took a Hinckley boogie team to represent the Midwest USA.
Shortly after I exited this quaint whore house by jumping out the window, the villagers of Guadalajara gathered to chase me... apparently some sort of local custom. So, of course, I looked for a gun. Although interesting, my jog across rooftops and thru back yards was tiring… Probably because of the 5,000 ft altitude. At some point, I suppose our Mexican hosts collected me. Dunno. Afterwards, I gibbered, jabbered, did some reds, and went to bed.
Next morning: TERRIBLE hangover. Got up, staggered to the bathroom to piss. Being sewn to an unnoticed mattress made me pause in the door until the stitches broke loose. Shortly thereafter, we did a demo skydive into the soccer stadium with a panicked pilot who sweated mucho. We’d each do a 10-20 second delay into the playing field which was at 5,200 feet ASL. Fedo spotted, took a snort, and shouted, "CUT! Give me five-left and a glass of water!"
Since missing the stadium meant landing in a DEEP canyon, I compensated and pulled a bit low and by whichever reflex remained got open at about 75 feet AGL. The crowd seemed appreciative. Lots of noise.
Later Fedo, whilst inhaling energy producing powders and running backwards, took the orphan kids on a brisk run around the Soccer Field. Himself, attired in a blue jean denim hat, purple bandanna, gold chain, and wearing a purple-mesh-net tank top, tattoos, and crotch-split shorts with his balls hanging out, is bouncing up and down and shouting:
Kids loved it. Parents too. Hell, cool scene! With a rowdy group of assorted Mexican folks on his trail, Fedo looked like the Pied Piper as he lapped the track. ! VIVA!
Polite lads, we drank the celebratory beer and then some. Ate somebody’s BBQ goat with our pocket knives, corn tortillas, and piles of fresh onion, lemon, and jalapeño. And beer.
Later that night, Fedo won about $500 at a mob-scene cock-fight and having a bad flu, naturally, took acid to ward off the flu-effects whilst maintaining full-tilt party-mode. It worked. He didn't sleep for 3-days. !VIVA! !BOOGIE!
Partied out, heading towards the airport and home, Fedo, the veteran, wisely ingested several reds and 2-3 Chloral Hydrates (Mickey) to induce restful slumber. As the departure was delayed, he ended up in a coma on the terminal floor, pale, white, and drooling. He was calm, so we let him lie.
The silly airline yanks Fedo’s ticket home, "The Senor, he is very ill. He may not go on the airplane. He must go to the hospital. Comprende?"
Only by coordinated team work including my dramatic on-knees begging got his body released for the flight home. To get on the plane, he was required to walk aboard. He mostly did. We were proud of him.
Entering back into the USA , Customs cheerfully took apart all our luggage, parachutes, strip searched Dan David, and found 1/2 pound of white powder in our jumpsuits legs. "What is this?" they asked. "That is just tortilla flour that we put in our pockets and jumpsuits for the demo jump so you could see us better as we skydove into the soccer stadium for the poor orphan children, and yak-yak........," We honestly replied.
We were held until another guy in another dark suit+tie comes in with a very interesting expanding suitcase. He measures and mixes up powders and vials and carefully puts the power in, swirls it around, tastes, sniffs; then, closes up his case. Stands up nods, and proclaims, "Tortilla Flour!" and departs. ... Back home, it took awhile to rest up. Probably the water. Or the altitude.