The midwest will be my leather bitch. I’ve arrived in the capitol of Montana with a thousand elephants and a legion of angry lumber jacks, and we are currently assaulting every tobacconist and Lucky Lin’s casino on the main strip. We are surrounded. We are being attacked from the mall to the north, from the church to the south, the college to the east, and the movie theater to the west. This is excellent. I am advancing. Charge, God damn you all, go! We have things to do, I’m here for my fucking gold.
Or I’m in a comfort inn and have painted faces on the pillows, and am throwing tiny bottles of shampoo/conditioner at the blank stares like grenades. The neighbors are concerned. There are mirrors in here, everywhere. I know what you’re thinking, I’ve checked behind them, nothing. My only friend is the vending machine, who will provide me with red flavored Vault energy drinks. I have named him Coca Cola as he does not respond to Wilson. There’s a small man at the front desk who looked worried when I checked in, so I have decided to make my presence known on the toilet bowl.
I’m going to Popeye’s.
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