Issue #81 April 29, 1971
"Morning comes hard to the Hotel Ashmun; this is not a place where the guests spring eagerly out of bed to greet the fresh new day. But on this particular morning, everybody in the place is awake at the crack of dawn: There is a terrible pounding and shrieking in the hallway, near room No. 267. Some junkie has ripped the doorknob off the communal bathroom, and now the others can’t get in—so they are trying to kick the door down. The voice of the manager wavers hysterically above the din: “Come on now, fellas—do I have to call the sheriff?” The reply comes hard and fast: “You filthy gabacho pig! You call the fuckin sheriff, and I’ll cut your fuckin throat.” And now the sound of wood cracking, more screaming, the sound of running feet outside my door, No. 267.