[I the Cubeland Mystic, a sinner and bondservant of the most High, swears that no mind altering substances were consumed during the transcribing of this vision.]
Lickona’s mullet was the best indicator of his mood. In days past soft mullet curls, lank, oily, sacramental, hung down dripping with hope and promise. In those days, like King David, he stripped to his hemp loincloth to bring in the harvest with his vassals and tenants. He danced before the Lord and his queen, and he would call to her, “Look, I am France!” And she delighted in him and brought forth many children. His lands yielded up their bounty, and new oil and wine flowed from the stone presses, and all was well. In those days, they beat their swords into plowshares, and his children played contentedly beneath the Cedars of his land.
But those days were gone now. Today his mullet was dry, and there was no party in the rear. It was a Psalm 22 mullet—a Good Friday mullet. The extreme tightness of the curls was only surpassed by the unbearable tightness he felt in the “undiscovered country” of his loins. The hot wind blew through his mulletinous curls, and they shook like dead Aspen leaves as he stood on his patio deck surveying his lands. From a distant village the church bells tolled cocktail hour, and the peasants in the downwind valleys forsook their tools. There would be much fornicating in the villages tonight. He prophesied. The hot winds proclaimed the truth of it.
Resolute, he lifted the silver flask from his glass patio table, and took a swig of vodka. Then he put it into his backpack next to the cocktail shaker and ice. Followed by his laptop, Iphigenia, with the gunmetal keyboard. Next his chrome plated Colt 45 automatic, and then a leather purse containing a hundred golden drachma looted from the Siege of Troy. He then lifted his War Axe, Draíocht, high into the air. “Oh Draíocht, reveal to me my true face!” He thundered like a Celtic king. He unsheathed the mighty War Axe from its black leather cocktail shrug to peer at his reflection in the highly polished steel. He straightened his black bow tie, and brushed some cracker crumbs from his tux jacket’s lapel. He admired the dry cleaner’s craftsmanship in removing the bloodstains from the white cummerbund. I look smarter than a New Yorker cover. He thought sheathing Draíocht into its black leather cocktail shrug, and hooked it onto his belt. Once he used it to cleave the helms of a thousand fierce Viking warriors, now he only wore it to cocktail parties, and from it flowed witty banter.
He zipped his backpack, and slipped it over his tuxedo jacket. He reached into his pants pocket, pulling out a single double-ought buckshot shell, and wrote the word “LIBERATION” on it with a red Sharpie. Picking up the Mossberg, he chambered the shell, and clipped the weapon to the backpack. He laid upon his shoulders a pick and shovel like the beam of the cross. Thus begin the journey beyond the zip line and barbed wire to the far reaches of his vast Californistani estate, and the foothills of the mighty Sangre de Cristo mountains.