So we pull into Beatty, Nevada for gas. It's nighttime. In Nevada, that means it's dark. Nevadans have become used to this. There are two cop cars at the gas station. We gas up our cars, during which time the cop cars leave. Good. Nothing worse than bored cops. So, our little caravan pulls out and a block away we're pulled over. Bored cops -- is there anything worse? One cop says, "Do you know why we pulled you over?" That's always a good question not to answer ... never offer information to a cop. Maybe you'll give them a reason they hadn't even though of. "You just killed ten people? Holy cow, we were just gonna tell you that your headlight was out." And that's why they stopped me, he said. He wanted to tell us that one of the truck's headlights was out. Horsecrap. If that's what they cared about, the cops could easily mentioned the headlight at the gas station, rather than lie in wait for us a block away. Obviously, what they really wanted was to take a look inside the vehicles. Nevada law enforcers have become used to the event and know that many of the BM-bound will be "holding." They don't know they're oinking up the wrong tree entirely with this crew, but no matter -- I refused them permission to look inside, as would anyone who knows what's good for him. So they wrote out a fix notice for the headlight & we took off again. No, I'm sure of it: nothing worse than bored cops.

(Note Deuce of Clubs bola tie hanging from mirror. It's important to note the details. I mean, what if there were evidence of a crime in this photo, and you were asked about it later? Huh? What then, huh??)

Stayed the night at the Clown Motel, as on the BM98 trip. Ate at the Station House, Tonopah, Nevada. Ordered something called "tips & noodles." Well, here's a freakin' TIP for ya: Never eat at the Station House, Tonopah, Nevada. They were out of noodles, so they used spaghetti. And the meat was hideous, grey, grisly-gristly fat, a cruel blow to the baser instincts. (Breakfast's conversational highlight: Britain, who used to work at Disney World, recalling, "They used to send me over to Space Mountain to group the people for the spacers. It was like playing Tetris with really fucking ornery pieces.")

Wagner claims Tonopah for Mother Monogram. Mother Spain. The Fatherland. Father Time. Something. Anyway, it's his, so just jump your damn self on back, ok?

This is a button that Britain found at a roadside yard sale in Tonopah, but kindly donated to Deuce of Clubs on account of great agitation and excitement. This -- so we believe -- is Officer Ugg (or Ugh?), invented by some sort of Don't Drink Poison Y'all campaign of yore. (If you have any information about this, please contact us.) (Update 28dec01: And here's another clue for you all / Officer Ugg was not Paul / Who, turns out, wasn't dead after all.)