Got up, cleaned up, checked out, loaded the rigs and were heading downtown into Kansas City all before noon. We were up pretty late last night, so, cut us some slack. Whipped straight downtown, then over and down and into those West Bottoms to scope out those warehouses in the bright Missouri daylight.

We bring you, the Kansas City West Bottoms:

469. “Kansas City West Bottoms, no.01”
470. “Kansas City West Bottoms, no.02”
471. “Kansas City West Bottoms, no.03”
472. “Kansas City West Bottoms, no.04”
473. “Kansas City West Bottoms, no.05”
474. “Kansas City West Bottoms, no.06”
475. “Kansas City West Bottoms, no.07”
476. “Kansas City West Bottoms, no.08”
477. “Kansas City West Bottoms, no.09”
478. “Kansas City West Bottoms, no.10”
479. “Kansas City West Bottoms, no.11”
480. “Kansas City West Bottoms, no.12”
481. “Kansas City West Bottoms, no.13”

So we come up on this manhole, half open, and of course, Ryno could resist…

482. “Kansas City West Bottoms, no.14”
483. “Kansas City West Bottoms, no.15”
484. “Kansas City West Bottoms, no.16”

If a pig were to pull up on the scene, he’d find Big S sitting like this, while we were breaking and entering run-down industrial shops and garages, prowling for treasures. Hmmm.

485. “Kansas City West Bottoms, no.17”

- - - -

All” bottomed-out” we paid a quick visit to a sunken steam boat (full report tomorrow) and hit the trail over to meet P.J. on his R.A.M.B.L,E. over in St. Louis of all places. We made good time getting over there. 250 miles in three hours flat. Smoooooth sailing the whole way, across the great state of Missouri.

486. “Ozark country, man.”
487. “Ryno lead the charge most of the way.”

Pulled into St. Louis after night fell. Met up with Hoss at a little Vietnamese restaurant on South Grand.

488. “Meeting up with Hoss. Glad he’s still alive.”
489. “They weren’t lyin’, either.”
490. “Road-Worn Ramblers.”
491. “Some weird green stuff was our dessert.”

Once supper was complete and the check paid for in full, we headed south a bit to lock down some shelter. All the way into the suburbs (Ryno’s lead, again…) to find some internet for the night. Found some dump and loaded in.

- - - -

Ryno can’t pass up a chance to take a cheap shot. Be it hitting me with whatever he can fit into hand and then throw in my direction, poking me in the ribs or just taking a swing at me, the motherfucker just has this need to “take me on” and provoke a battle. Actually, it’s more like: The fucker just can’t take how bad-ass, talented and handsome I am.

He pushed me over the edge tonight in the hotel room, minutes before we pushed off into the night to find adventure. Cornered, I had to defend myself. Ryno went low and I went high. My low center of gravity and exacting mass was no match for his rookie, sinewy, emaciated ways. I neutralized him into a five point hold, applied a series of brutal “rips to the face” and then constricted him into submission with a deadly “Sandy Boulevard” sleeper hold, that quickly resulted in insiped cries of “Uncle” and “My life is slipping away from me…I relent.” Something like that.

I’m not a violent person, but, when fucked with by Ryno, I channel the spirit of a million of fierce dachshund brethren and strike accordingly. “If you mess with the bull, you get the horns, Ryno.”

492. “A patented “Rip To The Face” was generously applied.”
493. “A millimeter away from breaking Ryno’s back once and for all.”

Once the battle was finished and the wounds tended to, we headed out into the city. Drove and drove and drove and didn’t find a damn thing. Gambled some loot away on that motherfuckin’ Casino Queen. Too sad to comment on. Hung out at the arch, and, another scrap broke out with Ryno, again. This time, I got the shitty end of the stick with a stray bottle of water. Thanks, you fucker.

494. “That big Arch.”
495. “DDC, Third Annual Fall Tour, St. Louis.”
496. “Insurgent attacks below the Arch.”
497. “Friendly fire.”

We did find a late night snack at this little hellhole called, “The Buttery Restaurant.” Yuck. Dog food, if that.

498. “Buttery.”
499. “A rare shot of Hoss, just as wild as ever.”
500. “Peace talks.”
501. “Resolution.”

And of course, no stop in South St. Louis is complete without a pass by Slo Tom’s.

502. “We can watch Gary play “Sweet Home Alabama” on his Peavey guitar…”
503. “Late night Kleb.”