On a long and lonesome highway, east of Omaha, Lance Lear, poet, raconteur, Renaissance man, stood facing the setting sun, thumb in the air, as the 18 wheelers full of toilet paper rolled past, drivers wearing gas masks.
It had been two weeks since Mairka shut down. The CORONAVIRUS, COVID 19, BOOMER REMOVER, had turned the country, and half the world, upside down, and inside out. Welcome to the NEW NORMAL, motherfuckers; the Mad Max meets Monty Python Matrix, where there is no blue pill, not red, pill, just bad brown acid, plenty of it, and plenty more where it came from.
The virus was beating the shit out of the world. The world was on its knees, and the virus was feeding it shots, like a slobbering, raving, drunken Roberto Duran sticking needles into a Sugar Ray Leonard voodoo doll.
Every time Uncle Sam thought the worst was over, the virus came back, and kicked him in the balls again.
Victims, cured once, relapsed again, and again. Percentage wise, aside from the old, few of those afflicted rolled over and let the reaper have them in their asses. But of those afflicted, only a few of them ever made full recoveries. The virus was toying with them, stealing their lives little by little, crippling them physically, destroying their will to fight on, no matter how many thoughts and prayers were issued for their salvation.
Everywhere around the world, the people begged for a cure, like a pack of bitches in heat, howling for a slick, stiff, pink dog dick under a full moon. Governments ordered any and every facility with the technology to help the losing cause to convert, and do so. All but one, that is.
The arms industry was exempted from the conscription, first in Mairka, then around the globe. If the world survived, no matter how many humans lived, no matter how beleaguered they were, they would have to be ready to fight wars to preserve all they had left. ‘twas ever thus, and until the blood of the banksers ran in the streets, the money gluttons would continue to pull the strings of puppet governments, and do everything in their power to make sure it would always be.
Lance Lear had watched it all going to Hell in a shopping cart full of hand sanitizer for exactly thirteen days, before saying, “Fuck it,” and hitting the road. He’d been exposed to the virus hundreds of times. The virus never laid a glove on him. He was immune. He knew not how, or why, and he didn’t care. He had a book to sell, and like every wordsmith, he had nothing better to do. If it was to be the end of the world, Lance Lear wanted to go number one, with a bullet, on every best sellers list, before the Reaper ass raped him into submission, choking him out as he did so. If that meant selling them one download at a time, well, he had nothing better to do.
Lance pulled out a smoke, lit it, and stared down the road bemusedly. It couldn’t be real. Could it? It was. Lance laughed, “It’s a girl, my lord, in a flatbed Ford, slowing down to take a look at me.”
Kitty twitched when she saw Lance on the side of the road. A bolt of sexual adrenaline ran through her nubile, 105 pound body, from her pretty little head, all the way down to her pretty little toes, five feet and two inches below.
She stopped, rolled the passenger side window down halfway, and said, “What’s your name? Where you going?”
“Name’s Lance. But never mind where I’m going. The question is, where the fuck am I? This ain’t Arizona. Ain’t no corn fields in Arizona. So, you shouldn’t be here. I’m waiting for the Metallica tour bus. Or Bob Segar. Whatever it says in Revelations. This timeline just went into Dali time. It’s all fucked up. Who are you? Where did you come from?”
Kitty burst into laughter. “Good answer! That’s why I bought the truck, when the shit started hitting the fan. I guess you’re the one. Get in. Unless you’re really gonna wait for Lars, or Kirk to come along and suck your dick. If that is the case, you most definitely ain’t the one, and this plotline is way too twisted for me.”
“Well, everything in the world is twisted, rigt now, so why not this plotline?”
“What did you say?”
“Well, everything in the world is twisted rigt now, so why not this plotline?”
“That what I thought. There’s a typo in there. Hang on, I’ll fix it,” said Kitty.
“Just leave it,” Lance snapped. “Typo my ass. You another grammar Nazi? You know grammar Nazism is a mutant variant of OCD, don’t you?” Kitty laughed, and Lance carried on. ” I’m with Twain on this one, ‘I have no use for any man who can only spell a word one way.’ If you’re gonna be all anal about the occasional typo, despite the fact that they don’t interfere with you ability to understand the sentence, I’ll wait rigt here for that Metallica tour bus, ’cause I’d rather deal with Lars and Kirk pawing at my dick than ride with a grammar Nazi.”
Kitty suppressed her laughter long enough to say, “Point taken. But,” she smiled, “Twain should have said anyone, not any man.”
Lance thought it over. He didn’t like it, but she was rigt. No need to be going through Twain’s cannon to correct all that shit, though. Jerks. And Kitty’s lesbian jive kinda turned him on, in a strange way, much more than the thought of Lars and Kirk pawing at his dick, so he let it slide. He took it easy.. “Okay. Fair ’nuff.”