Dear Planet Earth,
Old habits die hard, and apparently my habit is getting easily kidnapped. It would be funny if it wasn’t so sad and terrifying.
I made it to the giant cone late last night, assault rifles in hand and vengeance on the mind. I followed the swarm of other cars heading there, at least three of which had bumper stickers that read, “My other car is the Millennium Falcon.” I could barely make out any of the features of the space ship/time machine/zombie containment device in the moonless night, and the dust from the quake was still out in full force.
Our caravan eventually hit a perimeter of numerous gates topped with barbed wire. We followed these around to a single entrance, where it looked like people were getting turned away by a detachment of military personnel. I waited in the Hummer for a few hours, listening to radio static and trying to think of a clever witticism to say when I finally had my revenge on those I deemed responsible for Diana’s death.
“Give my regards to Hitler, dirtbag!”
“Suck my Glock, motherfucker!”
I stared at the flashlight outside my window — and the heavily armored young soldier behind it — in confused terror. “What?”
“Can we see some ID, sir?”
I came back to reality some moments later and slowly handed him my learner’s permit. He gave me a similar look of confusion after inspecting it.
“How did you get a hold of this vehicle, sir?”
I laughed. “I stole it from a homeless guy.”
Apparently those were the magic words, because two minutes later I found myself thrown face down in the sand surrounded by the cast of Battle: Los Angeles. One of them screamed, “Are you Scott Arthur Panus?” over and over, and when I said yes, they put a bag over my head and brought me to this canvas tent cell.
It would be funny.