We pulled into an outlying Austin 7-11 in our beat-up ’98 Civic just before sunup. I made sure the M-16A2s were secured.
Jason plopped 7-11 chimichangas between us.
Munching, I reviewed the shortlist of new government options by the dim glow from overhead bulb.
“Clam rule.
Liver-tarianism.
Optometrist rule: ‘Which coup was better? The first or the second?’
Rule by Taco Bell clerks with X200-Pro megaphones free-roaming public roadways asking ‘How are you?’
Rule by sentient chicken Alfredo carbonara.”
“Fuck it. Assimilation ain’t all that bad, I guess. Let’s just go to the mall.”
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