Written from the warmth of a trash fire and under the gaze of the Sacred Bean Cans.
The fire crackled different this morning—less of a pop, more of a suggestive squelch. I knew the day would be strange. The Sacred Cans were restless too. Capricorn rattled like a squirrel stuck in a lunchbox. Gemini tried to roll into the fire uninvited. Something unnatural was afoot.
Around noon, I was meditatin’ in my usual trash fire lotus—shirt open to the cleansing smoke, mind open to the cosmic soup—when a man with a clipboard and very clean shoes wandered into my camp like a salesman who took a wrong turn at “dignity” and ended up lost on the back roads of the soul.
He introduced himself as “Blaze.” Wore a vest made of unnatural fibers and smiled like he practiced it in a mirror. Said he had a “business opportunity” for someone with “charisma and mystic flair.”
Naturally, I assumed he was with the railroad bull-police or one of them scam tarot collectives. But no—he wanted me to sell butt plugs. “Premium wellness massagers,” he called ‘em. “Silicone spirituality.” He had a box full, all rainbow-colored and shaped like futuristic doorstops for a spaceship with no shame.
He said the company’s called “Plugalicious Ascension™,” and if I joined his “Plug Pyramid,” I could “take control of my financial destiny.” Told me I had the “authentic wizard-vagabond energy” the brand needed.
I told him the only pyramid I deal with is the Great Pyramid of Debris behind the Food Lion dumpster, and that thing owes me three socks and a half-burnt tarot deck.
Still, I gave the cans a shake. Asked Scorpio if there was power in this path. The can hissed steam and burst open with moldy beans. That’s a hard no in the mystic hobo arts.
I told Blaze that the Sacred Cans had spoken, and unless his plugs could open portals to alternate railroads of enlightenment, I’d be declining.
He left in a huff, mumbling about my “closed mindset.”
That’s when the raccoon known as Jasper scuttled out, grabbed one of the rejected butt plugs, and scampered off into the shadows. I figure if the forest spirits want to use ‘em for rituals, that’s their business.
Daily Prophecy:
Beware the smooth-talking merchant bearing silicone dreams. Not all that glitters is spiritual gold—sometimes it’s just a vibrating accessory with a 15% downline. Trust the rusted can and the whisperin’ fire. Your soul knows what it don’t want.
I remain,
Hobo Harry
Bean Can Oracle, Trash Fire Mystic, Rejector of the Plug Pyramid