Jameson woke up the next morning in the hotel, still feeling a residual euphoria from all the shots the night before. Where did they even get all of that junk? And where did they all go?
He scanned around the hotel room for a packet of cigarettes, and eventually found some in his back pocket, still in perfect condition but flat – like the flat cigars his Uncle used to smoke.
It was somewhere around noon, and after several cigarettes he finally looked out of the window to see what kind of deserted, military occupied ghetto he was dealing with this time. Each city they had played in seemed worse than the last, like the unnamed and opaque Civil War was following their tour bus. He had no clue which “military” occupied Gamewood; they are generally all the same. Jameson tried to ignore the conflict and what little news could get through to them; it all seemed predictable, and he had already seen it all depicted in much more vivid ways through cinema and literature. He knew that his tour bus wasn’t a threat, and that his band was a valuable asset for any of these makeshift armies.
Expecting yet another ghost town as he looked out the window, he dragged heavily as he took in the exact opposite image: it was a thriving, happy city, like just out of a postcard. The entire scene was perfect, and he drank instant coffee and wrote in his journal about the beautiful women and families and businesses.
Maybe I will walk out of here and this entire beauty just disappears. Maybe our band is the curse that created this war and I’m at the nucleus – so once I leave this hotel there will be no more Gamewood. Maybe I am the tornado of this entire thing, or the man that I am common to, or just men like me I guess. It isn’t the men with guns that are the problem, it is me who enables their financiers. Entire industries have been built based on contracts made for us. And now we are traveling through war zones. But Gamewood looks promising, and I see no clouds in sight today. I will leave the room after this cigarette. A woman just looked up at me, and maybe she blushed because I am only on the second floor. Did she see me? I am going to just go find her.
And he left the hotel room, suddenly feeling a round cylindrical object in his pocket – and then several more. They were shots. He ducked into the bathroom in the lobby and did one as quickly as he could, lighting up a cigarette and wiping the blood off his arm as he read the military-grade labeling on the shot. ONLY ADMINISTER QUARTER SHOT ONCE DAILY. IMMEDIATELY DESPOSE OF APPARATUS ONCE ALL FOUR (4) SHOTS HAVE BEEN ADMINISTERED.
And he left the hotel, immediately taking in the splendor of both the shot and the town. The entire street was bustling and peaceful, and it seemed like every shop was open for business. Beautiful women were everywhere, and all the men seemed respectful and rational. There were no traces of the civil war, no evidence of conflict or terror.
He was about to walk back to the hotel to get breakfast when he heard the laughter of his bandmates in the distance. Excitedly looking around, he barked out a “Hey! Boys” and found them nearby, all huddled up and cracking up at something, and as he walked up he saw something that immediately filled him with terror as the sunlight poured through and smoke like ribbons danced around it he saw little men very little men and they were laughing and smiling and floating and seemed to be… projected or on a loop.