I seem to enter camp the same way every year. Alcohol.
Night before, I slept maybe a total of three hours. At sunlight, after I drank my last beer and found that the bird’s nest sitting in the top of our Christmas wreath (year ’round ornament) was full of dead baby birds. Eyes haven’t even developed and shit head mom either died, or flew off with some Murder of Black Crows to be gang-raped and the little pink chicken tenders don’t like regurgitated Crow cum.
So I ripped out the nest. They were already dead. I made a fire on my brick patio. And…
I burned that bird basket like it was a Norse Longship.
Hence. Daily Alcohol.
I capitalize Alcohol because it deserves it.
Back to story.
We pull into Camp. People look distraught. Fire is kind of aflame. What has happened? Fuck it. We made it. Lets jump out of car to give hugs. But, drinks first. A ‘John Mink’ consists of rot-gut rum and cream soda. Make two. Back to hugs.
These hugs are always sectioned between, “Hey, how ya been? Love ya, Buddy.” AND “So, what drugs, guns, and other supplies did you bring?”
No one gives a shit that I brought a tent. In fact, I bring a one-person tent every year so no one can fuck my world up more than I’m about to do.
After all the quick ‘hellos’ and ‘fuck yous’ I set up my camp. Farthest away from gun range and on other side, fire. Tent, 10 mins. Sleeping bag and pads. Eliminate pinecones from under. Pillow. Headlamp. Drugs in the ‘drug pocket.’ Make another drink.
Chainsaws. Fire getting ready. Cooking Swedish Pancakes on propane grill. Magazines being loaded with ammo. Hot tub is ready. Lots of rigs in the line. Fishing lines being tied.
Then I learn why everyone is so distraught. And boring. And its not weed.
Intro to Chapter 3
Multiple Camp members (veteran camp goers) almost died.