Nearly a year had passed since the Sneiracs had decided to go to Morocco. It had been the longest. Day jobs. Bank accounts. Strange new revelations about the mystical metaphysical montage melodies that they were laying down.

Bud began to comprehend the magic that existed. The magic that Mirror had spoken of. He had vivid dreams of a place in time where magic was a part of daily life. Where a race of supermen possessed mysterious powers.

The dreams came nightly. Bud floated through a place like the flick, Shangra-La. Ancient times or future times, Bud didn't know. The people there were bright, healthy, and happy. A better place. The weather was always perfect. The scenery was beautiful.

Bud witnessed miracles. Once, a large bird rested on a statue of a siamese cat carved of green crystal. The bird spread his huge wings out and flew off, knocking the statue from its pedestal onto the head of a small boy playing underneath. The child's head was crushed.

Bud panicked. He was right there but couldn't reach out. He could not break on through to the other side of the astral plane. An elderly man rushed to the child and held the boy's head in both hands. The boy sat up smiling. His head was no longer crushed. Instantly healed.

Sometimes Bud would dream he was a bird flying over this wonderful place. Like a powerful telescope, his eyes would peer down from great heights and focus on glimpses of life in this place. He once saw a woman in red plant seeds in the ground and within minutes, large melons sprang from the earth. He flew in circles over her head and swooped down to get a closer look at her melons. He wanted a taste but knew he could not take what was not given to him, in this place.

He flew on until he saw a party. Music played and people were dancing. It reminded him of the little park on Bleeker Street. As he flew closer, he could hear the music. Scarien melodies.

"Wake up, Bud. We've got to pack our bags and split."

"You wake up. I want to sleep."

The cats gave a one week notice to Morgan, the landlord. They crated up their axes in a big wooden box that they had painted red. They packed a change of clothes and a few books into a couple of second-hand suitcases. They had copped the plane tickets to Rome. From there a boat would take them to Barcelona. From there, another boat would take them through the Strait of Gibralter to Tangier.

A friend in the Village gave them the name and address of a writer who lived in Marrakech. They were to look him up when they made that scene. Morocco is a big place and the hipsters were not hip to where they would find Mr. Scary. They weren't even completely sure that Morocco was the center of the universe. Nobody they talked to knew for sure. They just had faith.

The Sneiracs spent days before their departure beating feet all over the Village copping everything they needed for this cosmic road trip. Four cans of Prince Albert tobacco. Four Prince Albert cans filled with Harlem Gold Leaf. A stash of bennies. A bag of Columbian coffee beans. Maps. Books on Zen. Candles. Poetry books. Four new pairs of shades. A case of cigarette papers. These cats were ready. They even had a few C-notes between them.

A cat everyone called Fessig pulled up in front of the Sneiracs pad in his purple polka dotted hearse and the cats loaded their stuff in the back. They all piled into the death taxi.

The trip to the airport was a five reefer drive. On a distant radio station, a new Elvis song played. Even through the crackling and drifting, everybody heard what sounded like a square Vegas version of a Scarien melody.

None of these cats had ever flown and they all had the heebie jeebies. They got to the airport early, checked their baggage, and fell into the coffee shop for some java. Only PJ noticed the thin man with dark glasses and a crisp London Fog raincoat. The thin man was holding a tabloid in front of his face and the tabloid was upside down. PJ chuckled to himself and didn't pay any more attention to the thin man.

The boys were feeling pretty mellow. They busted their conks wide open on the golden leaf. Rusty thought he was already flying. Chick was cloud dancing too. A far away loudspeaker echoed the arrival announcement of their plane. The fly cats gulped down their java and split for the runway.

They stood in a short line with olive skinned squares in gray suits who spoke in tongues. Veiled chicks who showed no ankles silently stared at the gray suits in front of them. Obese American tourists stared at The Sneiracs in disgust, contemptuous of the fact that the scummy looking bohemians would share the flight.

The thin man lingered at the rear of the line looking casually about. This cat had G-man written all over him. The dark glasses. The London Fog raincoat. The expressionless face. The flat feet.

Any true hipster who had been around the block one time would have peeped this thin man in two seconds. Most vipers would have sensed his G-man vibe anywhere within a six block radius. The Sneiracs were so hopped up from the big road trip, they didn't even notice the thin man. They watched their stuff being thrown into the belly of the big bird.

The cats had been scuffling and hustling long and hard to pay for this excursion. Like a good head arrangement, the boys had knocked all the details around in their conks for so long that they had no second thoughts. It was splitsville. No looking back now.

After about two weeks in the sky, The Sneiracs landed in Rome. They didn't speak Italian, so it wasn't easy getting around. They had an 18 hour wait before they could board the boat to Barcelona. They found their way to the harbor and crashed out on a worn gray pier.

Giant fog horns sounded like clarinets from hell. A mysterious dream whirl surrounded them. The scene looked like a black and white B movie, except for the orange sun going down over the Mediterranean. Only the smell of rotting fish kept the cats hip to the reality of this trip.

The boat ride to Barcelona went by quickly. They arrived just hours before their ferry was scheduled to leave for Tangier. They loaded their stuff onto the ferry almost as soon as their boat from Italy docked.

"Next port, Tangier!" an old salt named Captain Clark bellowed, as the wooden tub smoked out of the harbor.

The cats were really out there now. They were getting more anxious by the minute. The bennies they ate came on like gangbusters. Like a three gallon cup of espresso. These cats were beat and they didn't want to chance being in dreamland when they made the Morocco scene.

When the ferry docked, The Sneiracs managed to hire a cabby, who could speak some English, to drive them to Marrakech. The 350 mile drive was totally snoozeville all the way. The hack took the cats right to the front door of William, the hippest of all writers, who knew some friends back in the Big Apple. The hack took an American sawbuck and returned a toothless grin.

"We made it!"

"I wonder if we can cop some hashish?"

"You should have leaned on that cabby for a connection."

The cats knocked on the front door of William's pad. No answer. They knocked a while longer. And harder. They sat in the sun looking at William's colorful little bungalow. Chick pulled out some reefers and Bud unpacked the instruments. They hadn't played in days. Before the last roach died, the cats were wailing.

A crowd of local yokels stopped and watched for a while. Looking extremely unimpressed, they strolled on. The Sneiracs spent the night under the stars.

Morning came fast and William still had not made the scene. PJ checked the front door and found that it was open. There wasn't a stick of furniture in this crib. The cats went in and made themselves at home.

"Man, like we could squat here for a while."

"I'm hip."

"We've already been here for hours and we ain't been evicted yet."

"We need to fall in down at that market we passed yesterday and cop some blankets and pillows."

"I'll check in here and watch our stuff while you cats fade out to the market," PJ mumbled.

The cats strolled about a half mile up the road to the market. They bought some pallets to sleep on. Everything was cheap. Bud bought a crazy spiral mandala medallion made of brass. Rusty tried to score some hashish with no luck. They looked at the fresh food and couldn't get hip to what they were seeing. A vegetable stand from Mars.

They spotted a restaurant with a sign over the door that said "Good Food", in English, so the cats pointed at items on a menu they couldn't read. They got served some kind of gumbo, some spicy fish head cabbage soup stuff and brown stale bread. Chick made up a doggy bag for PJ to eat back at the new pad.

The food didn't taste too bad but the cats were hip to the fact that they were out of town. As they left this greasy spoon, they didn't notice the thin man sitting at his table reading his tabloid.