This country has officially spiraled into absurdity. Salvaged cars, engines still dripping oil, cost more than newly made vehicles. Housing prices are skyrocketing, leaving one such as I, unable to find a place to live that isn’t already infested with cockroaches or scuttling vermin. Reduced food, marked down in bins, set to expire, is all I can afford. To top it off, recently, the skin on my face has started to bubble up into pustules surrounded by dry flakes of flesh. An expensive trip to the dermatologist has led me to believe that I am definitely on my way to death. 

I’ve determined that the only solution I have is to dip out of society, take my “escape shot”. Using my Doomsday Go Down Throwing long sleeve tee, I have made a bindle with the basic necessities and headed into the mountains where I will settle, alone, in the abandoned mining town of my great grandfather. Here I will spend my last years, months, or days on this forsaken planet, doing the only thing that matters anymore: building my own course and throwing Doomsday plastic.

In these end times, the most vulnerable are perpetually struggling against enormously destructive forces. Action must be taken. But perhaps that action is to protect our own peace of mind. For me, my greatest solace is to hear the sweet clank of metal, reminiscent of Jacob Marley’s cursed chains, when my Bleak putter finds its home. Much like a beginner must relentlessly work to manage an overstable disc, I endeavor to work the deserted land to create eighteen baskets of complete perfection. On this course, I can hone my skills as my bubbling skin falls to the soil.

My first goal is to make sure that I can create this course. I have begun collecting metal cans, pull tabs from soda cans, and cast iron tubing which my brother, a plumber by trade, has unearthed from residential sewer lines and replaced with PVC. Carefully, I have experimented and am still determining how to meld these together to create my baskets. The terrain is varied and the old lean-to’s that provided shelter to transient miners gives personality to the potential course. There is a surplus of horseflies here, but they seem to scatter when I use my Plague driver as a fan.

But now, the aggressive sun permeates my core as the rising heat of summer bears down on me, agitating my sensitive skin. Using my belt buckle to strap my thick rimmed Land Mine disc on my head for maximum shade, I start to sketch the course, giggling at how I might design some of the approaches to my baskets. Lifting a slice of stale bread slathered in refried beans from the underside of my Famine distance driver, which spends its downtime serving as my only plate, I chomp down and finally feel the world, for however long it lasts, can be endured another day.