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Dee Dee

Age: 26
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Where am I from: Israeli
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Subscriber active since. Editor's note: A version of this article incorrectly said McAndrews had never visited a strip club before beginning the Nevada Rose project.

About me

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Most of those people, save Kevin and Martin, I never saw again. Sue Mercer was part of the permanently vanished bunch. She was the red-headed Pentecostal girl from Minnesota living among the drifter-degenerates that squatted about town.

She was fascinated by God and the mountains surrounding Wells. She talked about infinite variation in the ridges and individual grains of sand and how there were billions of burning stars no one had ever seen. We were deeply in love, inhaling nasally, for a couple days. It ended as quickly as it began one yellow desert morning. The morning she saw a harbinger of Christ at the Burger King.

Harbingers will do that. Donna's Ranch, a whore house in Wells, Nevada. All photos by Daniel C. The first time I stopped in Wells I was out of gas and money. After that, I drove in for days at a time, for a free roof. There are at least 20 abandoned brick-and-particle-board houses along the main drag with a broken window, or a hinge-less pine door you can move to the side.

When mcandrews began shooting the brothels, he expected them to be seedy and filled with drugs, he told business insider. what he found was something completely different.

More than half of them have a working sink and toilet. I went in to see what the inside of a whore house looked like. Televisions were on in the rooms that lined the long, skinny hallway behind the bar. Girls from the east coast were talking in the rooms and blue light from the televisions flashed out of their doorways, showing how dusty the air was. I bought a warm beer and looked at the ditto.

Some of the faces were nice. None were thin.

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When I came out, Sue was standing on the roof of her Oldsmobile, peering out into the mountains, smashing a pair of binoculars hard against her face. I was taking pictures of the run-down houses I slept in — the broken glass on the carpets, the shingle piles; and little tent-city where Kevin Denglo, Martin Penesi, and Kaia lived with their adopted dogs.

I was drunkphotographing my Whopper.

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Sue was laughing at her fish-wich, drawing pictographs — cat faces or spikey suns — in the condensation on the window. Sue decoded the Burger King bathroom and sat on the sink, laughing like crazy, breathing through her nose like a yogi. She wanted a cigarette. She turned her head over her shoulder toward me and leaned into the mirror. She put her head on the glass for balance. These are like, 20, in a trillion. View from a squatter's den in Wells, Nevada.

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Kevin was some kind of potentate within that million-man fuck-up. They were crashing in Wells until the location of the next massive hippie gathering was revealed by the Council of White Witches or whoever did the revealing. Martin, released from his tax job, divorced from his wife, restrained from his son, rode in on a wave of attrition.

He wagered seven Burger King cherry pies — one for each of his fingers at some point Martin was a journeyman carpenter. The journey ended when his autistic brother pushed him into a band-saw — that Sue was obsessed with reduction and theorizing about the role of small things in the universe because of the stabbing regret she felt for aborting an ill-wrought zygote.

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It probably had eyes. She greeted her dogs with prolonged tongue kisses. She was one of those.

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Sometimes it was both dogs at once. I tried to run each time, or at least shut my eyes. Under-processed vodka was big-time currency around Wells. Kevin arrived months ago, on a tip — the biggest goddamn secret in Nevada — from his meth-mouthed buddy Lyle, the Wells Motel desk clerk. Kevin said Wells was churning out billions in crystal methamphetamine. Like Kuwaiti oil. Kevin was biding his time, patiently devising a plan to cash in and build his own lab — his own subterranean lab.

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He said he was running weed up and down the Outer Banks in a charter fishing boat. I saw Martin again in the 9th Ward shortly after Hurricane Katrina. I had made my way down to New Orleans to photograph what came next. Martin was stuffing his swollen face at a spaghetti dinner on Congress Street, in a volunteer camp erected inside an moldy, abandoned elementary school. I have a picture somewhere of his maimed hand holding a fork with a meatball quivering on the end of it. Fuckers took his bike and his shoes. Sue and I started kissing while she modeled for me on the Burger King bathroom sink.

We spent the next two days in my sleeping bag. We wound together so tight it was hard to sleep. We looked at each other and laughed and drank our bad breath away. Every so often, I saw Sue sink within herself. I watched this look of distaste cross her face — curl her lip — when we stopped to lie on our backs.

The morning she changed, we got up to eat French toast sticks at Burger King.

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Sue was pirouetting in the parking lot sun. We looked at the mountains and she told me about her grandparents proselytizing on the Cayman Islands. We could get there. We could work on a cruise ship and ditch; sell my car and her lucky diamond; tear these houses apart for copper. A pick-up pulled in behind us with the harbinger. This doughy, shadowy kid in a black jersey got out. He approached us in tiny steps, as though his feet had been bound at birth.

I swear to God it took him half-an-hour. He had the sleepiest look on his face. We followed him to the pick-up. The elk was strapped to the bed. An old man got out and put his hands on his hips. The kid holds his elk's heart in Wells, Nevada. It took him a while.

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The heart kept slipping out of his chubby fingers. When it emerged, Sue squeezed my arm. The kid held it like a volleyball and I photographed it. The old man said the heart was fresh, the elk only a few hours dead. Sue bent down and smelled it. Then she got behind the kid to look at it over his shoulder. She grazed one of the tubes sticking out of the top with her fingers.

For the next 36 hours Sue was a live wire. We took our four-door sedans mudding, drunk, all day, all night.

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We siphoned gas from cars parked at the Flying-J. Before she said see-ya-soon, we talked about transformation. Jesus was in the mountains; in the giant, bloody heart; in me and everything she touched. No one knows who I am now. Not even you. Do you understand? Is that OK? Sure its OK, Susy.

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