How many times had he stood calmly back there on the duckboards and listened to respectable-looking people talk about raping the hotel penguins?

 Maybe there is no Heaven. Or maybe this is all pure gibberish — a product of the demented imagination of a lazy drunken hillbilly with a heart full of hate who has found a way to live out where the real winds blow — to sleep late, have fun, get wild, drink whisky, and drive fast on empty streets with nothing in mind except falling in love and not getting arrested.

Res ipsa loquitur. Let the good times roll.