Holy crap! Almost dead before he even gets started.
“Mo-fo-er!” he calls after the car that almost mowed him down as he was getting out of his own.
But, rounding the corner of the abandoned Boat House restaurant he parked next to, he’s now at the sea.
Let’s see, do we want him to walk counterclockwise or clockwise? Guess it doesn’t matter. Using the power of the observer still observing, I suppose we could just dive straight into the Alamo and skip ahead in the game at this point…
… but we don’t.
Let’s head his still dry self off east not west.
Good idea in terms of psychic resonance. Because soon he encounters the shadow of a giant plane that isn’t present.
Only a bird as he looks up into the sky to check where the sudden darkness came from.
He figuratively if not literally scratches his head (and his hinny?), then continues. Like Superman he feels he can accomplish anything this bright day in late April’s May — endless possibilities — with not a little help from the reefer he smoked before driving out here. Good ol’ Trevor Philip. He’ll kind of miss him when all this is said and done with.
If only the smell of dead fish wasn’t so strong.
(to be continued)
Sunklands 