• Vol. 01
  • Chapter 06
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Misplaced Bullets

As the days drifted through us, the horizon somehow got smaller. When did the promise of water turn into piss soaked pants and empty cans of beer? When we find whatever oasis is left will it be a reduction of old hops and sub-par barley? It seems even the frogs would be in that half drunk haze. That lovely and forgettable inbetween.
We left somewhere between 3 days and 3 weeks ago, just as supplies dwindled to almost no water and almost too much swill beer. So we took what we could and set out for that rumor that spelled l-i-f-e. As we learned to know it upon leaving it felt like a dull humid sweat of existence. The all too comfortable humdrum of knowing everyone and having done everything. That is to say, within the confines of the town.
We talk about it now and can't seem to recall its name, its role. We were just settled there. Some came from who knows where, some were born there. When we talk about it now I see tears gleam the reflection of the high sun.
I suppose no one really promised anything, it was merely manufactured hope. We needed it. Politicians were run out fairly early. People banded together and tried to stay peaceful. Food came and went until the water started getting sucked up into heaven. Then people stopped passing through. And those that stayed got ornery. Once the reality of our situation set in the numbness wore off like frostbite. There was word of lakes, oceans, government funded reservoirs. Words don't quench thirst these days. Even the beer leaves one high and dry.
It had to happen eventually I suppose. Hope fades and spirits soar away. We decided to stop and camp here for some time. Found a well that was still pumpin. Now we've almost forgotten the last place. We've almost forgotten where we were going. People don't come through much, when they do we've got plenty of beer to trade for salt, building supplies, or even clear water. People don't come through much, so our misplaced bullets fall on what we've got too much of.