Road Kill Tour was in high demand, attracting individuals eager to join the crew. "I'll work for free," they proclaimed, willing to offer their services without compensation. However, I knew that man cannot survive on air and water alone. "I'll pay you dearly for your time," I assured Jake Muss, a Samoan with a robust physique and an indomitable spirit. During the interview, he proudly proclaimed, "I can handle my drugs." That was all I needed to hear. I hired him immediately as my right-hand man, someone who wouldn't hesitate to take control of the wheel if the drugs momentarily overpowered me.
Today was meant to be a day of work, but I had a better plan in mind. "Let's stake the place out," I proposed to Jake. "We can practice some lines, snort a few lines, and see if we can make it back to the Farm Retreat alive." I assured him that it was a very achievable goal. His agreement came without much convincing. Flexibility was another trait that checked all the boxes for a roadster on a Road Kill Tour.
I made it clear that I wouldn't engage in reckless driving. "We need one of us with a full license to avoid upsetting the Road Kill Tour applecart," I explained. Jake reassured me, saying, "If you happen to become a dick, I'll headlock you and thump some good sense into you." It was precisely the kind of support I needed—a partner who could act under pressure. He was forthright and well-intentioned. I replied, "And I've given you permission to do so." Complaints of workplace bullying were out of the question. This gig we were embarking on had no limits, and the stage we were entering was undefinable. We would have to improvise as we went along. When the going gets weird, it's time to get weirder.
We set some ground rules: no speeding, only speeding in our minds; no stimulants, only what the doctors prescribed. The drive ahead of us was long, and we had no idea where we were headed. But that didn't matter. On the Road Kill Tour, uncertainty was our fuel, and the journey itself was the destination.