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