This mornin’ started like any other—me and Jasper (that’s the raccoon, not the old man who swears he’s a sea captain) were doin’ our sunrise ritual: trash fire meditation, sacred can tuning, and a cup of railroad chai (that’s just hot water over a cinnamon stick I found in a hat).
But just as I was scryin’ deep into my Capricorn can, the metal started vibratin’. Not like usual. This wasn’t fate tremblin’. This was interference. Some force—slick and corporate-smellin’—was leanin’ on the sacred frequencies. Jasper tensed. The wind stopped. And Blaze, bless her, came skatin’ down the hill with news:
“The tinstream’s been tapped.”
I didn’t believe her at first. Who would? The tinstream is the mystical current that runs between every hobo can, bottle cap, and shopping cart bell known to the Wayward Arts. But she said she saw it with her third eye (which, for Blaze, is her left ear—long story), and what she saw was a briefcase.
So we called a meetin’. The raccoon council showed up late, as usual. One of ’em had a Cheez-It stuck to his tail, but I didn’t comment. We sat in a circle, listened to the cans, and spoke of old prophecies. One elder, Widdershnack, chittered something fierce, and Jasper translated:
“The suits are tryin’ to patent intuition.”
That hit me hard. We’ve lived off gut feelings and mystical vibrations since the rails first sang. Now some shadowy group wants to sell it back to us? No sir.
So I did the only thing a mystic hobo could do—I slapped a sardine lid to my forehead and proclaimed a Counter-Vision Quest. Tomorrow, I go deeper into the trashlines, past the hedge of forgotten dreams, down into the hollow place where lost fates tangle.
If I don’t return by moon’s rise, send me a sandwich.
With crumbs of clarity,
—Harry
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