While the world may feel entitled and have the power to pronounce an individual crazy, are there times when the innocent genius, the insightful individual or just the old grandmother may reasonably declare the world to be mad? Probably, but what hope or happiness would such an individual have? — Michael Leunig
When the Crazy Prospector is set loose, he likes to do all he can when out in glare of sunlight and public.
The unseen remains free.
Four months after his last fade, just at the stage where he most resembled a silver fox, time to tighten up.
Straighter he looked, the less suspicion he sparked.
Any straighter, he’d be invisible.
Get to Trulieve, the cannabis choice of champions, and the waiting room looks like a pirate convention.
Four bald dudes with gold earrings.
Swarthy types, doubtlessly registered with the local morality police.
The old man’s government name is called and he seeks medical satisfaction from a purple-haired gypsy whose pronouns are ‘whatever.’
On the way out, Bong John Silver and his scurvy crew – remember this when you are told with certainty who uses – have been replaced by a similar number of sour soccer moms.
Faded but with potential, if they could only see it themselves.
Perhaps the daughters of pirates.
Got to Marker 48 Brewery an hour ahead of the appointed time.
Everything goes so fast these days, he liked to get a head start.
This is not a man you want sitting idle where they serve alcoholic beverages.
So, he wrote some haiku and sipped slowly.
Trip Advisor
Marker Forty-Eight
Afternoon brewery stop
Stick with the pilsner.
Yelp
Marker 48
“You are welcome to bring food.”
Can’t I just have beer?
A Good Time
Fifty beers on tap.
Events are subject to change.
All you need to know.
Why Am I Single?
Many men alone
Middle of the afternoon
Built like beer drinkers.
Crazy Prospector’s two friends arrived on schedule.
Now you come to think of it, three of them looked like those geezers in a Western movie, sitting on the front porch of the general store on a warm day like wrinkled lizards just as Clint Eastwood or Dark Brandon rides into town.
Down the middle of main street, kicking up cloudy dust.
Maybe pulling the reins of another horse, with a body draped across the saddle.
Dark Eastwood catches the geezers staring, reaches across and grabs the dead man’s greasy hair and pulls his head up for all to see.
Looked just like a badly carved, post-dated pumpkin of, oh, I can’t say.
Could’ve been Jeffrey Dahmer, could’ve been Ronald DeSantis.
The Crazy Prospector often got the two confused.
Dahmer never used tax dollars to traffic asylum seekers.
Dahmer never even thought to abuse transgender children.
That would’ve have been just too weird.
Hey!!! Crazy Prospector!!!
He snapped back to Marker 48. https://www.facebook.com/marker48/
No photos.
Despite – or because – of a combined age 234 years, nobody remembered they were all carrying cameras.
Marker 48 offers karaoke and corn hole.
The Crazy Prospector was disappointed to hear, “No, not at the same time, sir.”
Too fuckin’ bad.
He played cornhole overhand and he had this one song he just nailed.
Just nailed it. Oh, yeah. You know he did.
Even had the hat.