I’m drinking drip coffee and writing a tale about a chipmunk that eats magic mushrooms.
Log trucks are ripping by.
It’s a little after 6:30 a.m. I stopped in the 101 coffee shop before my construction job.
Two old men sit across the room from me and engage in conspiracy conversation. There isn’t a shred of doubt in their words.
“The Clintons murdered someone else. The hit list has been updated. They killed his brother, you know. And Foster.”
“The CIA owns Google or Google owns the CIA.”
And so on. They just know it’s all true because it’s right there on the Internet.
Their conversation turns to the upcoming 4th of July celebration and how it’s been ruined by the local liberals. “Too many self righteous liberals! They can’t keep politics out of the 4th of July.”
“You mark my words, they’ll be banning fireworks next, because of pollution.”
They bemoan the changing softening nature of the celebration. They didn’t want hayrides and petting zoos. They want the famous Indian massacre reenacted, like it was years ago. Why not celebrate genocide? It got us where we are.
I decide not to tell them I am going to give a hundred chipmunks magic mushrooms before the big parade and turn them loose on the town. They would find out for themselves and make a conspiracy out of it. Somehow, though, the Clintons and Barak would find their way into the blame.