In a vicious bout of absolute randomness, I’ll be dropping off the grid this afternoon to chase down a rumored sighting of the American Dream. It was two days ago that an unlisted number shattered my peaceful afternoon. Hushed mumblings about a ranch in Central Oregon, outside of a town that Google Maps assures me no roads lead to, where the Dream was reported to be holed up with three hookers from Brasil and enough firepower to drastically change the natural order of things. Whacked out of his head with irony and fear and chemicals, the American Dream seems to be headed towards terminal despair. The unlisted voice asked if I’d like to check it out this weekend.
I pondered for a moment and told him to call me back; I needed to seek professional council. I immediately got in contact with my attorney who advised me to proceed with extreme caution. Contractual obligations would keep him from joining me, but the nut of conversation was to load up on as much firepower as I could get my hands on, because where we were headed, no roads lead. And the possibility of contracting The Fear would be very real.
When the unlisted voice called back, I denounced him as a cheap hustler, a geek, and a swindler of old ladies. The American Dream is dead, I shouted at him, W Bush killed it, kept it chained to the wall in the secret sub-basement of the white house since September 10th, 2001, before executing it on Christmas Eve of last year. You’re a fool for spreading such lies, and wasting my time! The Voice chuckled and told me to be ready by 6:30 Friday afternoon, arrangements had already been made.
This is what it’s come down to: Turned loose in wilds of central Oregon with booze and guns, in search of The American Dream. A lame fuck around in the desert or perhaps the right ingredients for combustible greatness?
I’ll catch you kids later.