The End of Fear and Loathing

We had plenty of sparkling water, along with enough high-octane Starbucks pit stops mapped out for the whole trip — minus that wasteland north of Hot Springs. But the road ahead was long and hilly and I didn’t bring my reading glasses…now where did I put my CBD oil?

My attorney and I accelerated into the deepest Ozarks in a baby blue convertible Tesla, but before we got on the road we did a quick inventory of what we’d need to make it through the next 48 hours.

We were driving to Branson, Missouri for the annual Disc Golf Tournament and Corn Dog Eating Contest. I was covering it for Medium, and my attorney was along for the ride, as his second cousin lives in Little Samoa in Bentonville, Arkansas.

Due to his anxiety, combined with being woke, he can’t drive, although I explained that the Tesla practically drove itself.

“Are you mad? This demon machine will hurl us off a mountainside,” he said.

“Drink some of this,” I said, handing him an ice-cold Topo Chico in a glass bottle.

“Oh, thank you, sweet Jesus,” he replied, “I cannot abide this stuff in a plastic bottle. Do they think I’m an infant?”

I knew he’d calm down soon, like the big baby he was.

He mopped a layer of sweat from his brow and put his feet up on the dash. I slapped his cowboy boots back down and reminded him Elon Musk wouldn’t approve.

“I don’t give a damn what that wannabe space cowboy thinks,” he said and shot the bird in the general direction of Mars.

We’d pull over soon, mostly to fill up on one of the necessary indulgences we’d already run out of, chugging too many ice-cold, overpriced seltzers behind the wheel of our Elon-mobile, the MuskRat.

I don’t like to admit this on the interwebs, but I struggle every day with saying no to a boatload of shady habits. They cost money, they keep me up at night, they create generalized guilt, and worst of all, they cut into my four side-hustles because I still work due to thinking I’d die at 56 and would never have to deal with this hellish post-vitality existence.

I gave up drugs and liquor and women and smoking, but I can’t get through an hour without a snack Gwyneth Paltrow would never endorse.

What’s in the frunk?

We pulled into a Whole Foods in Bentonville, the only one in this godforsaken state, apparently. We crept down the aisle to purchase more Topo Chico. The stuff might be shortening my life but we needed to throw another case into the MuskRat because we only had two left and they weren’t on ice anymore.

I was tempted to buy a couple of yerba mate in the cans, but at my age, if I have any caffeine after 9 am I’m up all night having flashbacks.

The Topo Chico was in the backseat, in a Yeti cooler covered with stickers for brands of all the crap we eat and drink regularly but sometimes forget the names of. I never imagined I’d live this long so I mostly remember who I am from tattoos and stickers and fridge magnets.

Not that I’m complaining, but that pipsqueak frunk barely holds three dinner candles so we threw everything in the backseat.

Next to the Yeti, I appraised our two family-sized tins of Kettle Corn, one caramel and the other natural cheddar. I was pretty sure we’d make it across the Missouri state line with that stock, but my attorney was a known Kettle Corn glutton. He looked my way, nudged his dark glasses down his nose, and eyed me, then grinned.

He nodded with gusto. We’d be okay, crunchy-snack-wise, but I’d stashed a can of Pringles just in case.

We checked the rest of our snack supply. We had a 3/4 full salt shaker full of pink, Himalayan salt, in case the Kettle Corn didn’t have the right balance of flavor, and also for the trace minerals. Plus, we might need to make friends with millennials and pulling out the shaker to offer a sprinkle worked like a charm.

Four bottles of iced Kombucha, in various berry flavors, were also nestled in the Yeti.

A watermelon, for quick cleansing or if we didn’t feel like going full healthy, we could use it for target practice outside the hotel.

The frunk was holding a valued member of the Duke family — the oxygen tank. I quit smoking after my second heart attack and third divorce but I was a little late, feel me?

I almost forget, next to the Yeti we had a full jar of Trader Joe’s Cookie Butter for the times when withdrawal kicked in and because the Show-Me State had never heard of Trader Joe's. What kind of utter hillbilly madness was this?

With all the ‘Rona in these backwoods, we weren’t willing to pull MuskRat over until we reached Branson anyway.

And, goes without saying — we had two jars of Nutella packed into the glove compartment.

Locked, loaded, and lopsided

We were pulling over every hour. At our age, that’s to be expected based on pain, but I suspected the combo of a constant stream of overpriced soda water and swigs of Kombucha for gut health were contributing.

My attorney was looking more pale than usual, which I attributed to him quitting vaping last year. As we were crossing the Arkansas-Missouri border, he was chewing on Nicorette like it was bubble-gum. I tried to calm him down.

“Have a snack,” I said. “And add some of that pink salt. It’ll get you into a better state of mind.”

“My mind is as sharp as a hypodermic needle,” he replied. “Now, where’s that Nutella we brought?”

“Glove compartment, but go easy. We only have enough to last us through day two of the tournament.”

He grumbled something about poor planning and my overall lack of ambition.

I hit the accelerator. We’d finally come to a straightaway, and I took off at 90 mph as the drugs began to kick in.

We’d also brought some CBD, so I was finally beginning to relax.

It’s 100% legal, even in this backwoods, dry county. I was feeling so sedated that 90mph felt like 200mph, and by now my attorney was passed out, his mouth and fingers slathered with a chocolate glaze from scooping the Nutella straight from the jar.

We aren’t in Vegas anymore

I’ve traveled plenty, and so has my attorney. I’ve gambled in Havana, with Warren Zevon and in Monte Carlo, too. And I lived through the terror and dread in Las Vegas when Tricky Dick ruled the land.

But Branson is another level of weird. Wholesome weird.

And there wasn’t a bottle of kombucha to be found there. Naw, those frackers live on sweet tea and Mountain Dew.

Fortunately, we had plenty of Topo Chico to get us through the weekend, as we checked in to the seediest place we could find for $79 a night plus free breakfast.

Two guys on souped-up Harley trikes, with the wives riding pillion, pulled into the parking lot behind us. Hell’s Boomers. Maybe we could compare and trade CBD later that night, just before our 9 pm bedtimes.

The lobby was filled with throwbacks from the Lawrence Welk era, and I noted my attorney was getting wild-eyed and nervous.

I asked the lady where our room was and she asked if we’d need any help with our luggage. I told her to keep her damn hands off our stuff, and that’s when she noticed my sidearm.

“It’s for protection,” I noted, adjusting my sunglasses which I cannot remove due to the constant glare. I wanted to keep the interaction brief, as I was worried my attorney would freak out at any moment, plus I had to use the restroom again.

Goddamned prostate.

When we got to #23, I slipped out of my orthopedic shoes and into my slippers, but my feet were still killing me by the time I poured myself a cocktail of watered-down decaf Starbucks with a pinch of stevia.

The golf tournament started the next day, and I was flipping through the motel-approved pamphlets when I heard a gurgling sound from the bathroom.

I leaped up and ran to see my attorney, hardly spry at 80, seizing on the bathroom floor. He’d warned me that ever since the gastric bypass operation, he was living on borrowed time.

He said to me, “Duke…I need…Kettle Corn.”

“Okay, man, okay. What flavor, though?”

“Aaacch, chedd — no, caram, aacchh, gurggl.”

Then his eyes glazed over. It was too late, and now I had to face a pageant of medical personnel who would ask what the hell I was doing feeding high-fat, high-sugar, caffeinated, hippie-inspired crap to my best friend.

I think he choked on a wayward kernel.

I sat down and crumpled on the bed. My next move meant calling the authorities. This would require a little pink salt and at least one more Topo Chico before scooping my oxygen tank from the frunk.