Conclusion: Pain

Jesse Christine is quiet now. All are asleep except for myself and Heath Who, who is piloting us homeward. Every man is clinging to the last breath of warm air, which is quickly fleeting from the cracks in the floorboard. The white lines outside are a blur as the Protobus nears the outskirts of The Land of Volunteers. I too am weary. But before I sleep I feel it necessary to tell you, faithful reader, about the last of the three battles.

The Battle of Carolina (Southern Front):

We pulled in to a string of shops stretching a kilometer or so up and down a main drag just outside the city. Buried in this front was the Maproom. A long-time underground haven for supporters of the cause, we were welcomed by her people and given food and drink to steady ourselves for the long night ahead. We were introduced to members of a local army who called themselves A.S.I.F. They were a ragtag bunch, but they kept in good spirits.

As the dark covered the land we found that we were not alone in our fight. Allies had traveled in from the surrounding towns, some had even made the voyage from the scene of the Great Juliette Lewis Tragedy of ’07… Disneyworld. More still had followed our bus, having nowhere else to go, from the ruins of the Battle of Savannah.

Every man fought hard and stood firm, until the battle was won.

Immediately following the battle, we danced to the sweet sounds of Brian Adams and Cyndi Lauper.

It was a good night for all.

The Battle of Carolina (Northern Front):

As we pulled into the town of Greenville, we knew something was very wrong. This city was unlike any other we’d fought in. It was small, dimly lit, and had the sour stench of Crown and locally brewed Energy Drink on its breath.

As we descended into the belly of a district called “Spaz” we spotted what we naturally assumed to be our enemy: They were a small army, but intimidating: A short man with an evil grin, dolled up as some kind of demon Saint Nick…A Irelander with a scar across her brow claiming to be a robot who only spoke in riddles, “bitch is crazy! bitch is a republican!” she kept chanting…and a burly fellow riding a long thin board and drinking everything in sight.

We moved in slowly from the south, but they were on top of us before we could think of a next move. Others followed, some friendly, some ready to strike…but all in a frenzy of alcohol and taurine. They came at us from all sides. We were barely standing when the blows suddenly ceased. Kilroy stood up and gasped for air…”They found me…I don’t know how but they found me.” “Who?” Murphy yelled across the din. “Who do you think, Murphy…The Libyans!”

And all at once the horrible laughter and the sounds of G.G. Allin songs stopped and the Libyan Death Squad gave us a beating we won’t soon forget.

We retreated to the safety of a nearby Sheetz…but were crushed under the mighty blow of 15 inch woofers and security guard batons. It was horrible…no words…

We slowly backed away from the Sheetz and again toward the Spazatorium knowing that we would surely be destroyed if we were forced to fight on two fronts. As we hesitantly returned to the scene of the first battle, the growling of the Shitagoddamns caused Commander to soil himself. The room was spinning and we felt this was our last moment amongst the world of the living, when the Spazbots turned on the Sheetzmongers.

The Libyans…the Shitagoddamns…everyone within the walls of that terrifying place turned on the city that surrounded it and destroyed the evil that consumed Greenville with a mighty roar of Rock and Roll Hellfire.

The battle was over. We didn’t win…the Rock and Roll fury of the warriors of Greenville won. They embraced us like Dr. Allan Grant embraced Dr. Ellie Sattler at the end of Jurassic Park…or like Jeff Goldblum embraced that small gymnast at the end of the Lost World, or like William H. Macy embraced Téa Leoni in Jurassic Park III…the point is it was like a movie about dinosaurs where everyone makes it out alive except for the fat guy from Seinfeld who wanted to make a quick buck and opened a Sheetz and turned it into a terrible beacon of retard.

But I digress.

We celebrated the rest of the night listening to the Devil Santa sing the songs of his homeland while being beaten with an empty keg of beer and a broken scrap of rod-iron.

Greenville…you are like the Thundercon of North Carolina.

The Battle of Richmond (The Last Front)

Richmond won this battle for herself. We never had to raise a finger. If we hadn’t been there…She would have thrown her fists up…she would’ve sang every word…she would have thrown herself off the stage and into the open arms of her children….she would have done all this by herself. And she’d have won too. We were just there for moral support…and to throw ourselves off the stage during the final song. We thank you Richmond. You stand in our hearts next to Baltimore. We will never again fear for your safety, and we will always fight alongside of you.

And now, tireless reader, as we pull into the shadows of the Thundercon, in the breaking light of morning, our story comes to an end. We are beardless and bruised. We have many repairs to make before our next battle. We have stories to tell our loved ones. We have one member of the Richmond army who hid on the bus and didn’t get found out until Knoxville. We have a renewed sense of courage. We have hope.

…we have work to do.

-Panther