We cross Canada. Winnipeg. I think of Kari Wynn. Winnie. Hottest girl at my Secondary school. I used to sit behind her in the coxed fours on the Thames on a Thursday afternoon. She has, or maybe had the best bum ever. The benchmark bum. The bottom line. Whatever, it was beautiful, as was the rest of her too. I don’t remember water, I don’t remember ducks, I don’t remember bridges, but I do remember that ass.
It is too cloudy to see the Great Falls, but the clouds dip and swirl, giving away it’s location. The sun is long and stretching its lazy shadows across the mountains. The Missouri looks like a sleepy golden tear. Or, the slime trail of of an inebriated snail. I’m listening to Happy by Mazzy Star as we cross its looped, collapsed ribbon of a path.
We’re flying towards Big Horn. I’ve got a hard on. It seems bigger than ever. Maybe it’s the low pressure, the altitude or something. It is definitely threatening to push up the food tray and push the seat in front forward. I think about my dick pushing the seat forward and crushing the stupid bitch in front like in a rubbish compactor. HOW DO YOU LIKE THAT, YOU STUPID BITCH!
Big Horn. It’s big and it’s horny. I can see why it is called Big Horn. Denver. Denver is just rock. Craggy, stubbly, like Robert Mitchum’s chin. The landscape is like Tatooine out of Star Wars. Occasionally there are perfect circles of green in Olympic formation, where rotating irrigators quench the dustbowl. The rocks are carved into with small out houses and paths leading up to them. They look like electrodes stuck all over a lumpen corpse.