It was a quiet drive home to the bean fields. Uncle Dave and I just sucked on them Natty Ice’s one after another without sayin’ a word until we got to Bayfield where we stopped and brushed our teeth in the park. Uncle Dave spat, looked over at me and asked, “Hey, Ollie; You think them boys made it out?” I didn’t know. Didn’t seem like they wanted to. It was lookin’ like the whole thing was some kinda planned performance piece that was meant to be the finale of all finales. I mean, we got notice of the whole thing from them boys’ spirit whatevers to begin with. And that trailer full of cows couldn’t have just been a random act, could it? The whole thing felt downright ceremonial, an initiation maybe, but into what? Oblivion? Where else could one be transcending into iff’n the point of departure is a repurposed abattoir in Pueblo, CO? Them hits from Lars were still unpacking my bags alright. I was thinkin’ myself into a padded cell fulla paint fumes.
The only thing left to do was get home and see if we couldn’t get some answers from the Ouija board.