Distraught after witnessing police brutality during the 1968 Democratic convention, Nico, a privileged idealist from Chicago, rashly follows Ellis, her pacifist
draft-resisting boyfriend to an idyllic commune in the mountains above Acapulco. The farm is run by Adam, a manchild cannabis evangelist cultivating the finest buds in
the galaxy in time for the arrival of Alien Overlords.
Enter deranged CIA spook Smith. He spots Nico and her friend Richard- a ringer for a young Ché Guevara- buying supplies at a nearby village.
Smith concludes that Ché faked his own death and is holed up at the commune. To smoke El Comandante out of hiding, he conspires with a dirty cop to bust Nico and use her as bait.
In the village jail, Nico befriends Tippie, a ditzy hairdresser from Empire Louisiana dumped by her husband while on vacation.
Sentenced to crochet bikinis to pay for crashing into a burro, Tippie chalks it up as, “Mercury is in retrograde.”
After finagling their release, the chicks skedaddle to Acapulco and become Go-Go dancers at El Club Boom-Boom. But with the spook hot on their trail, life goes completely FUBAR.
To those who come across this message in a bottle, imagine it pure fantasy. Too many years ingesting weed have passed for me to recall more than vivid bursts of the
era described in the media as The Sixties. Time was a candy store then, filled with luscious, brightly-colored, dangerous treats beckoning to be taken. We careened from one
to another like dolls caught in a nuclear wind.
With an ecstatic smile, Tippie closed her eyes and stuck her head out of the car window. Cool breeze, bright sun... According to her horoscope, it was 'a perfect time
for travel, spiritual renewal, and strengthening a marital relationship.' Despite the optimistic astral prognosis, she'd initially been a teensy bit worried about the car, as Bobby's 1958 Ford Falcon station wagon had a tendency to overheat.
I observed the target, Ché, meeting two females. A tall blonde KGB honeypot and a brunette Cuban soldier dressed in military fatigues. The three departed 47 minutes
Smith stopped recording, rubbed his face, giving the brunette a bit more thought. Despite her petite size, if KGB trained, she could kill a man twice her size with one
well-placed blow. It was just like the commies to force women into the military.