None of them were interested. I vaguely remember some big dude stepping between me and some other chick and yelling in my face. I swung at him. He socked me in the face. I remember me throwing a chair. We were restrained by bouncers and I was thrown to the pavement. I woke up in our hotel room the next morning with a white hospital bracelet on my wrist and a bandage on my cheek. I didn’t recall anything. Dirk was, once again, not there. I checked my phone and saw a ton of texts from Anjali. I only knew it was her because the first message said; “Hey this is Anjali.” I drank coffee and rehearsed a plan. I would go to her room and we’d have a quick pity fuck. I wasn’t sure how functional my cock would be after the previous night, but I’d manage. I would make sure that she sucked my cock for at least five minutes. I don’t leave these situations without lips having been around my cock. I’d tell her I didn’t think she was my type, get dressed and go. I made sure to remove the bandage. We spent the noon hour at his trading post and met his wife, an Indian woman named Annette. He told us we were almost to The Dalles and we should be there in about two hours. Eager to arrive at someplace where we could get re-supplied and rest up before beginning our trek over the Barlow Trail, we quickly ate and began to descend the trail toward The Dalles that followed the creek.We arrived at The Dalles and were greatly disappointed with what we found. It consisted of a store, a barracks still under construction, a Catholic mission and a few houses. From the passing wagon trains we saw a collection of the most rag tag people we had seen in quite a while. Here was a woman in clean clothes but no shoes or stockings, here a man with a suit but no hat or shoes, there children running around everywhere with almost nothing on. Clothes patched so often that you couldn't tell what the original cloth they were made of was and all of us covered with the brown desert dust from our travel.The.
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