I really didn't think anything of it at first.

I really didn't think anything of it at first. It looked like any other bathroom stall you'd find at any rest stop in America. I didn't even notice the graffiti message scrawled

on my back. According to my watch, I passed out for 2 hours, or maybe a day + 2 hours. I emerged from the bathroom and scanned one of the rest stop's maps. Baltimore?

I stepped outside and sank to my waist into a bubbling swamp. Baltimoreans were zapping about in individual pods. I'd slept for centuries. Ruins covered in moss punctuated the

carousel that used to be by home. The Baltimoreans had destroyed it, and I had nowhere to go. I was all alone in the horrible city of

a town the Baltimoreans called Baltimore. The Baltimoreans named most things from a dark place inspired by cheap liquor and crab cakes. I desperately needed real drama.

And boy did I get one! I was walking along this dark alleyway when a group of young punks jumped me. I moaned with anticipation. But they turned around and ran off, shrieking.

Desperate, I hired an escort service gigolo who took one look & offered me double his rate NOT to do it. The crackerjack plastic surgeon I reached out to just waved a white flag.

"That's the last time I have a plastic crackerjack plastic surgeon work on me!" I growled as women, spying my face through their curtians, grabbed their children off the streets.

Many flowers were destroyed by the little brats. They were arsonists. The famine of 2017 was blamed on them.