Things Fall Apart

Waylaid by sissies and sycophants.

The Oregon Trip slumped and wheezed, and was declared dead by the medical examiner at 5:45 PM today. Cause of death: chronic wimpyassbitchitis.

The first to go was Ernie, our shady Copy Machine hookup. After rewiring my house this morning, I spent two hours hounding the bastard over the phone. I got through twice, but both times he seemed confused, delirious…

“Is this Ernie?”
“Yeah! Lou? Is that you, Lou?”
“This isn’t Lou, this is Trevor.”
*click click click click*
“Hello, is this Ernie? You still there man?”
“Lou please I need at least another week. Some things have come up…”
“This is not fucking Lou, this is Trevor. I spoke to you last week about your spare copiers. I’m in San Leandro now, where are you so I can come pick them up.”

“Ernie? You there?”
“This isn’t Ernie… This is… Alan….”
“Ernie you motherfucker I KNOW IT’S YOU! WHERE ARE MY COPY MACHINES!”
“This… Isn’t Ernie…”

I slammed the phone down and squealed out of the Safeway parking lot. All the way to fucking San Leandro, the asshole of the East Bay, for nothing. Damn you Ernie. You’ll get yours.

Furious, I sped across the border into Oakland to deposit the thousand dollars in cash I had wadded up in my pocket.

Don’t ask.

Ranger Asshat from the Automated Medford National Weather Service Hotline tells me there’s no snow on Mount Ashland anyway, but that a tropical storm the likes of which we’ve never known is blowing in from the south by Friday morning. No snow, but enough frigid rain to make the roads impassible if the temperature drops. The entire Rogue River Valley is going to be a frozen bog by three oclock Friday afternoon. Motherfucker. Now even God’s against me.

Burning out of Oakland on MLK at ninety miles an hour, I made a few more calls. The Mad Hungarian, an old buddy of mine in Chicago, told me Quint got pinched on Wednesday night smuggling a barge full of Newport Cigarettes across Lake Michigan into Ontario. The mounties have him locked up in some horrific Ice Prison in Ottawa. As far as being locked up in a foreign prison goes, you could choose a worse country than Canada. Still, I’ll bet the poor fucker’s freezing. There’s no way we can even think of mounting a rescue op before the spring thaw. Canadian prisons, especially those holding foreign agents, are patrolled by vicious mounties on mooseback, who carry sniper rifles and heat vision goggles. We have no chance against them on their home turf in winter weather. Stay strong, Q. I’ll see you in March.

Galo, already bogged down in delays by work, called to admit defeat and throw in the towel around four. I cursed him for his weakness, and told him this was just the kind of cowardice I expected from a married man.


The Storm of the Century is raging its way toward the Northwest Seaboard, and I’m sitting in here wasting precious hours.

Fuck it, I’ll go it alone.

Sometimes you just have to sack up and fly solo.

Oregon is a savage and terrible place, especially in the winter. Long gone is Kesey’s idyllic forested wilderness. Oregon’s now infested with inbred survivalists and unwashed thespians. Killing a Californian is nothing more than a felony misdemeanor, and the corpses of yuppies and Sunset writers hang as grim warnings from the 55 MPH signs just over the border. Their mangled limbs and twisted bodies litter the roadside, many of them tied to trees or lightposts by vines and piano wire. If I leave now I can cross under cover of night, hopefully reaching Ashland in secret by 3 AM.

Fuck you weaklings. A six pack of Redbull, a fistful of Dayquil, and 5 or 6 MP3 cds full of Tupac and Johnny Cash are all I need now; friends, company, they’d just slow me down.

Wish me luck you swine.



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