There was a guy I met a few times named Donald Shea, a stuntman who did low-grade Hollywood movies in the 1950s. He was nice but dumb, pretty typical of the film business. By the late 1960s, with his film work dried up, poor old Donald got himself a job as a caretaker at a ranch about 30 miles northwest of Los Angeles. The ranch was owned by an old blind guy named George Spahn.

Anyway, in mid 1969, Charles Manson, or one of his 'followers', killed Donald Shea. They had been living on Spahn's ranch - so why had Donald stuck around? Like I said, he was dumb. I heard about it a few days later, but it didn't bug me. Shea wasn't a close pal. Who cares. The desert sands surrounding Las Vegas hold the bones of many of my friends who crossed the wrong men the wrong way. What you've got to realize is that you're always gambling, you're just not aware of it.

Okay, at the ending of the previous chapter, I hinted at stories of drugs and sex. That was just a 'page turner' (so my editor tell me). But it's true. I'll get to that. But for now, I just want to set up how the whole 'cult' thing happened.

I mention the Manson stuff because I'm connected to it - but at a safe distance.

In 1969, when the whole Manson murder spree happened in Los Angeles, a lot of celebrities got scared. I remember Steve McQueen started to carry a handgun. I didn't give a shit. In fact, I welcomed one of those faggy little long-hair crazies to take a run at me with a knife - because I wore a ring on my finger (a 'sharp skull', given to me by Vic Damone) that could cut metal with a frail swipe.

When I was hanging out at the LA offices of CBS Records, in the mid 60s, I often ran into a guy named Terry Melcher - who was a minor celebrity because he was Doris Day's son. Melcher had formed a duo, 'Bruce & Terry', with future Beach Boy Bruce Johnston, but by then he was a staff producer for Columbia Records. He produced stuff by Paul Revere and the Raiders, the Byrds and my old pal Gram Parsons.

Cut to 1968, Melcher is an independent producer working with the Beatles' Apple Records label. Okay, you probably know that Manson thought the Beatles were sending him hidden messages to kill people. Did you also know he wrote songs? Well, Terry Melcher sure did because Manson made him listen to the pitiful tapes. So when Melcher didn't sign Manson, well then Manson went apeshit and sent his killers over to Melcher's house to waste him. But what that brainless maniac didn't know was that Terry had split from that house three months before. The crazies ended up killing Sharon Tate, a hairdresser and a few other people who were definitely in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Why am I telling you this? Well, one - because I knew some of those people and this is my autobiography and I can write whatever I want to, and two - because I'm trying to get across exactly what that period was like. The 1960s, especially on the West Coast, produced both heaven and hell. On one hand, you had beautiful hippy chicks in bikinis dancing under the midnight stars, out on the crystal beach of Big Sur. On the other hand, you had people like Manson starting up really deviant cults.

However, New Yorkers are too violent and rude to join religious-type cults. So after I left Vegas and touched down at JFK airport, the last thing I expected was initiation in a cult so fucking bizarre that you're just not going to believe the details. But it happened.

Remember the cash I had from the Hughes job? Well, I spent it all in two weeks on booze, drugs and sex, roughly in that order. And I don't regret it one bit. Well, I do regret not being able to defend myself against some skinny Harlem pimp because the hallucinogenic drug I was on made his fists look like flapping loaves of rye bread.

Okay, so I'm penniless, confused, eating from soup cans, living in an abandoned refrigerator truck by the Hudson River. I know it sounds bad, but don't forget that I also had drugs - so everything seemed okay. It was November and starting to get cold.

Yet I couldn't really believe that I was in this kind of situation. When the drugs wore off, I'd sit by the Hudson and try to concentrate on what went wrong. I mean, how does a guy who'd sold millions of albums, a smart guy, end up a bum? I finally determined that my problem was simple - I had always been' too far ahead of the crowd', and as the crowd had the money, all I had to do was slow down a little, make everything a little dumber, less adventurous.

One day while I was sitting, pondering even more useless thoughts, this tall guy kind of appeared out of nowhere. He had very blonde, curly hair, a deep tan, and wore a long fur coat. And he was smiling, a big, wide, white, shit-eating smile. At first I thought he was a fruit looking for action. But then he spoke, softly, with a German accent. "In order to smell a substance," he began, "you must drag particles of that substance into your nose and, inevitably, across your tongue. Therefore, as I stand here with you my new friend, inhaling a million bowel movements from overfed Manhattanites, I can easily steel my resolve not to vomit. And I do this with my love for those overfed pigs. Yes, that's right, love."

O Lord, I was thinking to myself, why can't I meet just normal weirdoes. Howard Hughes had met his match. "Look pal," I said, "make your speech to the seagulls because I'm as interested as a cold dog turd."

This made him smile. "The willpower that I possess," he said, "can be acquired. I can make you stronger and no longer shall you be one of those whom life has kicked squarely in the nuts." And he began to walk toward me. "Do you mind if I sit down?" he asked, and then he just did.

He said that he was "in the business of making friends". How touching. I told him that I hadn't eaten in a while. Naturally, this made him smile. In fact, everything made him smile - these kind of guys always smile, until one day when they start crying and blow their brains out.

Anyway, he told me his name was Kronar, that's it, one word like 'Madonna' - and that sounded German enough. But then he said that he wasn't born on this planet, but came from a place called Zefton. I told him that I often felt the same way. He asked me if I liked women. "Sure," I said, "the more the better".

"I have everything you need," he told me.

"What's the catch?" I asked.

"No catch," he answered. "Believe," he said, getting really close to my face. "Just believe!"

So I believed… I believed he could get me lots of women and food - and the Kronar-mesiter did.

We went back to this big townhouse he had in Brooklyn Heights. There was a hand-painted banner on a wall that read, 'Church of the Celestial Anointed'. The townhouse was full of young hippies just smiling away, eating berries, counting money, and strumming guitars. A few of them approached me, fell to their knees, and began to kiss my hands. I thought, 'what the hell: this is worth free food and sex'.

Then Kronar asked me, "Do you do drugs?"

"No," I said, "drugs are for the weak, those who cannot conquer the pain of reality." Already I was getting the lingo.

"Excellent," said Kronar, "because I do not permit my children to foul their bodies with corporate chemicals."

"Kronar," I said, "you're my kind of man. Now where's the food?"

That first week was pure bliss - I did everything I wanted except drugs. Thankfully, I could drink, but only wine - and that's dangerous because wine will drain the life out of you. Didn't matter. It was free.

But during the second week, Kronar said that it was time for me to "spread the good news" - which had something to do with his visiting Earth to save us all.

I was told to stand around in Manhattan, holding up a sign that said something like, "WATCH THE SKY FOR THE GREEN LIGHT. KRONAR SAYS HELLO" or shit like that. After the first few days, his little disciples stopped checking up on me, so I immediately screwed off and hit some nightclubs I knew.

I'd been there about a month when one evening Kronar calls everyone together. He said he had to make a terrible announcement.

"One among us is a Judas," he began. A few people gasped - which I thought was over-dramatic. I mean, who gives a crap about this lunatic.

"Someone has not performed his function. He has, in fact, performed sacrilegious acts, partaking of alcohol and drugs while he should have been ministering to the people!" More gasps. I began looking up and down the buffet table for some more coldcuts.

"What should we do with this offender, with this dark creature who has inseminated our midst with corruption, grief and sorrow?" he asked.

It was silent. Then some brainless broad said, "Hurt him?"

"Indeed!" yelled Kronar. "Hurt him so that he can no longer vomit the venom of ungodliness across our sacred flesh!"

Then suddenly he turned to me. "You!" he shrieked. "You are the Dark One as predicted in the Labyrinth Scrolls of Zefton - 'He that wanders in song, belonging to no one, not even himself'."

"Listen," I began, sensing things were getting weird, "if you're talking about the nightclubs, I only went there to convert the drunks, that's all."

"What does this mean O Dark Lord?" he asked, all sarcastic, pulling a baggy of very choice Vietnamese pot from his pocket. "This was found under your bed."

"I would say that means you're almost out of dope!" I said, but nobody laughed.

"And this?" he asked, extracting a bottle of Percodans from another pocket.

Everyone was glaring at me. I didn't feel like finishing my sandwich.

"You were treated by us like a jaded god who fell from the stars. Now we discover it is your mission to introduce pestilence into our blood. But Dark One, it is you who shall expire!"

And with that two huge guys - named Gunter and Jeff - grabbed me from behind and dragged me to a bedroom. I was pushed down on the floor, and Gunter sat on my chest. Jeff left the room and returned with a hammer and some 3-inch spiral nails. Then Kronar appeared.

"A crucifixion is appropriate," he said, rubbing his hands, "because death is slow and gives the crucified time to reflect on his impurity."

"That would take months of reflection," I said.

It's funny, but in moments of incredible stress, I get a psycho-like serenity. I don't know why that happens, but it's like a dream-trance. I saw myself, as if looking down from the ceiling. There I was. How truly pathetic: a man of my fame and talents, being jacked around by a few inbred losers who weren't fit to scratch my ass.

I felt like laughing, but instead slid my hand down to Gunter's crotch, grabbed his scrotum, and twisted. He spun away from me, howling in pain. I pulled myself up, feeling quite refreshed. I heard Kronar yell something, but Jeff was so profoundly stupid, standing there with his hammer and nails, that kicking him in the nuts was clean and effortless. Jeff went down without a whimper: I thought he might be dead, but then he began babbling in tongues. I picked up the hammer and turned toward Kronar. He backed against a wall.

"I'm going to tell you two things Kronar, or whatever the fuck your name is," I said, "told to me by giants. First thing comes from Frank Sinatra - 'It's all timing'. The second comes from Marlon Brando - 'You only crank it during the close-up'."

Kronar whispered, "What does that mean?"

I reached inside his pocket and removed my dope and Percodans. "It's tough to say," I replied, tossing the hammer in a corner, "but it's something about knowing when to turn it on, and when to turn it off. And you pal, you're just an amateur."

I began to walk out the door.

Kronar recovered himself. "Who are you!" he yelled.

"Me? A messenger from Zefton," I replied, "and Kronar, it's time to come home. Your mission has ended." (Later, I learned he had been committed to Bellevue for 'observation'. He currently sells real estate in Des Moines).

When I hit the street I just felt like running with the wind. Freedom! To be free and alive in the greatest city in the greatest country on Earth.

I ended up in Central Park, dancing with the pigeons. Slowly my head cleared, my blood became drug-free, and the old fear and spite crawled up my spine like a sick snake. I was in Hell again, but it was a Heaven compared to my ensuing 'Comeback Tour'. Tighten your seatbelt honey. The boys are back on the bus.