Warren Zevon - Lawyers, Guns and Money

Get Me Out Of This

1. I woke up in some filthy, no-name hotel room with a splitting headache and the faint memory of Tequila shots, a brunette with bad intentions, and an argument that may or may not have involved firearms. The sun was already punishingly high in the sky, slicing through the threadbare curtains like a cosmic reprimand. The kind of light that makes you feel exposed, hunted. I reached for the pack of cigarettes on the nightstand, knocked over an empty beer bottle in the process, and cursed under my breath.

   It was then that I heard it — a familiar riff leaking through the walls from a nearby radio. That unmistakable thrum of doom and disillusionment. Warren Zevon. Lawyers, Guns and Money. Christ.

   I lit a cigarette and sank back into the stained mattress, letting Zevon’s voice fill the room like the scent of burned-out dreams. He was speaking directly to me, as always. His snarling, cynical drawl painted a picture of disaster, one I knew all too well.

   I went home with a waitress, the way I always do. How was I to know she was with the Russians too?

   I’d heard that line a hundred times, but it never lost its sting. It’s the mantra of every screw-up who ever thought they had the world by the balls, only to find out the world had a bigger set and a meaner grip. Zevon wasn’t singing about some poor bastard who’d stumbled into international intrigue; he was laying out the universal truth for guys like me. Guys born into power, money, and corruption. Guys who had the best lawyers on retainer, a family vault filled with old war bonds and dirty cash, and more firearms than the Mexican army.

2. My old man, Senator John Blutarsky, had built an empire out of grease, charm, and bluster. He was a master of the game, a walking wrecking ball who smashed through the halls of Congress, taking out anyone who stood in his way. And me? I was his kid — his walking public relations disaster. I grew up in that world, with that last name, and I got used to thinking I was untouchable. I started believing there’s no problem too big that money, lawyers, or firepower can’t handle. Until I was lying in a cheap hotel room, wondering if this was the day I’d call in a favor and get silence instead of salvation.

   

   Dear old dad in 1978.

   “Send lawyers, guns, and money, the shit has hit the fan,” Zevon growled. And there it was — the ugly truth no one wants to face until it’s too late. No matter how much you prepare, no matter how well-connected or insulated you are, the fan’s spinning, and sooner or later, it’s going to spray you down with your own goddamn mistakes.

   Growing up in the shadow of power means you never really learn to face the consequences. You learn to avoid them. I remember my first brush with the law. It was something involving a stolen motorcycle, a joyride through the Capitol, and a night in jail that should’ve been the end of my political career before it even started. But when your father is the most ruthless son of a bitch in the Senate, a couple of phone calls, a press release, and a check to the right campaign fund can turn a felony into a youthful indiscretion. That was the lesson I learned early: when trouble comes knocking, you call for backup. Lawyers, guns, and money - the holy trinity of the ruling class. Spectacles, testicles, wallet, and watch. Bless the fuck out of me.

   But Zevon knew what I hadn’t learned yet. The game’s rigged. No matter how many times you call in those lawyers, no matter how deep the family vault goes, eventually, the guns turn on you. The Russians show up. Or the Chinese. Or some pissed-off drug dealer you accidentally stiffed in a haze of blow and Bourbon. You can’t buy your way out of everything.

   The old man had always warned me about that. He liked to remind me that the wolves are always circling, and the more you play, the closer they get. But I never listened. When you’re raised in a world where your mistakes don’t follow you, where you can fuck up in spectacular fashion and still find your way to the family yacht by sunset, you start thinking you’re invincible. You forget that there’s a price for everything. You forget that, eventually, the favors run out.

   Zevon’s song was a prophecy. I’d heard it a thousand times, and each time, it was like some cosmic joke aimed squarely at me.

   I’m an innocent bystander, somehow I got stuck between a rock and a hard place.

   It’s a damn lie, of course. No one’s innocent. Especially not a guy like me, with a lifetime of bad decisions and broken promises trailing behind me like cigarette smoke. You don’t “get stuck” —you step into the trap, eyes wide open, and then scream for help when the teeth sink in.

3. I pulled a crumpled envelope from my jacket, the kind of envelope that comes with a one-way ticket to somewhere south of the border. I hadn’t opened it yet, but I knew what was inside. Instructions. Directions. And a note from my father, probably telling me to lie low for a while, let things blow over. He’d clean up the mess like always, call in the right people, grease the right palms. Lawyers, guns, and money. But even he couldn’t wipe away the stain that was spreading across my name now. Not this time.

   The phone on the nightstand buzzed, probably my father’s fixer or maybe some underling from the campaign, asking me to stay off the radar. I let it ring. Zevon’s voice was still humming in my skull as I finished the cigarette and stubbed it out in the ashtray. There was a knock at the door. I reached for the gun under my jacket, the cold metal familiar and comforting in a way that words never could be.

   

   “Send lawyers, guns, and money,” I muttered under my breath as I stood.

   Zevon was right. The fan had started spinning. And this time, no one was getting out clean.