On the bayou, dock lights rippled on the water between the crab traps. The red glow of autumn sunset streamed through the sycamores and palms.

Upon the Alamo, the amigos laid siege with unrelenting salvos of accordion polka tunes that German immigrants had inflicted upon their ancestors, who mistook it for music.

I put down the Rolling Stone, having finished "How America Lost the War on Drugs," subtitled, "After Thirty-Five Years and $500 Billion, Drugs Are as Cheap and Plentiful as Ever."

Tough on crime, we had 500,000 drug offenders in jail. To make room, we released the rapists and pedophiles on good behavior.

The amigos started a fire on the bayou bank. For kindling they used a mattress, from which billowed a cloud of atomic smoke, bathing the Alamo in chemicals, which the feds mandated to save a few drunks from roasting themselves in bed.

The boys lit the mattress with gasoline, then threw on the additional poisons of treated lumber and broken coolers.

Who needed drugs with a bonfire like this? It could not have been more potent if they had fueled the blaze with Chinese goods. In minutes, we got a righteous buzz.

Senor Dick drafted an amigo to fetch supplies. On top of a grocery cart they put Dick's BarcaLounger, salvaged from a trash pile on the curb.

Dick was big on recycling and had the decor to prove it. It was the environmentalist in him.

The BarcaLounger transport required skill and finesse, with two cases of brew in the cart, a pint of J.D., boombox and the throne itself teetering on top.

One wheel skewed sideways. Three went straight. The boys had been drinking since daylight.

They had merely to cross Dick's porch, clear the steps and descend the slope to the fireside on the bank.

I joined the amigos at the fire.

We seemed about a dozen Latinos short. I asked Pedro about the others.

He said, "They got beers, they got a car, they lookin' for troubles."

I said, "That's how we do it here, Pedro. They'll fit right in."

The boys had plastic chairs around the fire, the ones in the news pictures from the last stand of the gringos.

Only Dick and I were left. The rest resided in the county jail after the meth lab raid.

The cops had lined up the chairs on a tarp with five grim-faced gringos sitting, hands cuffed behind their backs.

On the tarp at their feet were spread their entrepreneurial hopes: bottles and cans full of chemicals. Yellow police tape wound round the Alamo, cops hustling about with grins.

Out with the gringos and in with the amigos.

Pedro and I looked back at the noise.

The boys had the grocery cart on the steps, when it lurched forward. The amigo lost his grip on back, but Dick hugged the front, shuffling backward down the bayou bank, velocity building, the BarcaLounger bouncing at his face.

He lost a flip-flop, then the other.

He made a great leap upward, crawling into the chair, careening down the slope.

The cart exploded through the bonfire in a spray of sparks and flame. It hit the water's edge and flipped, launching the BarcaLounger, beer, boombox and pint of J.D. into the bayou.

The amigos scrambled for the beer.

Dick plucked the J.D. bobbing in the water and settled back in his chair. He drifted out between the crab traps.

I proposed a toast. "That's how we do it here, boys."

As night fell, a wisp of smoke arose from the BarcaLounger.

Pedro cocked an eyebrow.

I expected the tide to turn before Dick went up in flames.

Phil Lucas is executive editor of The News Herald in Panama City, Fla. Contact him at plucas@pcnh.com. To find out more about Lucas and read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit the Creators Syndicate website at www.creators.com.

COPYRIGHT 2007 CREATORS SYNDICATE, INC.