“Doc fell in to a car convoy, moving slowly, single lane through the fog. 'Gee,' he said to himself out loud, 'I dunno.” Was it possible, that at every gathering-concert, peace rally, love-in, be-in, and freak-in, here, up north, back east, wherever-those dark crews had been busy all along, reclaiming the music, the resistance to power, the sexual desire from epic to everyday, all they could sweep up, for the ancient forces of greed and fear? If everything in this dream of prerevolution was in fact doomed to end and the faithless money-driven world to reassert its control over all the lives it felt entitled to touch, fondle, and molest, it would be agents like these, dutiful and silent, out doing the shitwork, who'd make it happen. They went out to collect cash debts, they broke rib cages, they got people fired, they kept an unforgiving eye on anything that might become a threat. Doc Knew these people, he'd seen enough of them in the course of business. Like the operatives who'd dragged away Coy Harlingen the other night at that rally at the Century Plaza. “This seemed to be happening more and more lately out in Greater Los Angeles, among gatherings of carefree youth and happy dopers, where Doc had begun to notice older men, there and not there, rigid, unsmiling, that he knew he'd seen before, not the faces necessarily but a defiant posture, an unwillingness to blur out, like everyone else at the psychedelic events of those days, beyond official envelopes of skin.

Inherent vice pynchon