NOTE: Every so often I try to write like another author. Here’s my shot at emulating Hunter S. Thompson.

The air feels like the sole of boot left to bake on the only highway leading out of the desert. All around, the sound of an impending riot beckons. An irate neighbor is yelling at his wife on the porch. Something about a burnt potato and a broken air conditioner. The chances for survival unlikely, our mission compromised.

Children race after the ice cream man, for this extreme clime is just too much for the Good Humor man to bear. You poor hapless bastard. Nobody told him the plight of the last man standing in the concrete jungle.

Perhaps a full scale riot is unlikely, however impending doom is certain. I can feel the bastards at the gates, circling, waiting for the next victim to fall so they can pick the carcass clean.

My head feels like a pineapple stuck in a vise, swollen from the heat. I could go at any time now. Need food. Need water. Need cold water for shower. How long Lord, how long must I suffer in this inferno trapped with these swine? And how did I get here?