We're all painting the bus, painting a iridescent white, the kind that when the sun hits it seems to reflect some sort of hideous Fomalhaut. It's best. Like an indian convoy out of Custer's worst dreams, we are carrying something important and sacred. Every person is carrying along their own personal charge, and everyone is reacting differently. I worry about Scott. He's been sitting there like he doesn't know what's gonna happen. It's not until we all start painting the bus that he starts to loosen up. Maybe he doesn't like guns. What ever the case is, we have to pull together. We're like Rastov's first Russian revolutionaries; no matter how deep we are into this, no matter what happens, the consequences of getting caught are even worse. We need to purify ourselves at some point. I make a mental note to stop in the Badlands. This time of year, the stream will be cold, but we can cross through the river of tears there. The dirt and detritus of our souls will be washed. To bring this thing to an end we are going to need to absolve ourselves. Of a lot of things. It's been good to have all of this together. Before we hit the road, I want to be sure of everyone's loyalty. I count the people I know I can depend on. At least five of them. Everyone still looks uncomfortable. I mention to two of them that perhaps a collective visit from the snake eyed man would help heal our wounds.

--Letters from a Savior; Offer for a few--


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