Castra Fecit Proxima Oppida Magna
We were somewhere near Roseburg when the economic realities took hold. To fill the tank, pour that essence of refined distillate, use the facility, check the oil, wire transfer funds from Belize, experience burrito regret in the lower GI, all before reaching the golden state, in the hall of the mountain kings. The non-vintage Volvo showing signs of long term abuse, expressing itself in groans and creaks, sighs and whispers; Lars discovers that the paperback display contains seven different James Patterson novels, lucky seven, the exact number of casinos visible from our hilltop refueling station. Oh, our kingdoms for a major book deal thus insuring liquidity as we head for Destiny City to pitch our reality television series.
The Earl is reading Caesar’s Conquests. Sid Caesar? No, Julius. Tony needs a wifi outlet to maintain his blog, “Heart of Jersey.” Lars leads a column of scouts through the neighboring districts to determine the friendliness of the natives. He returns near dusk to supervise camp construction. The booty includes three cans of Coors Lite, four bags of Doritos, and a James Patterson novel; Lars sacked a village after they refused tribute. Tony settles down with Tacitus’ Annales while I refine the elevator pitch: Romans invade California. Threaten rollback of nurses’ wages. LA is cut off, although it takes several months for the natives to notice. Everyone in the bay area is forced to retake SATs.
The map reveals several large rivers and barrier mountains to the west. Desert to the east. We’ll strike a southward course along a wagon track, all right, we’ll take the I-5. Somehow we’ll avoid the Spanish garrisons at San Jose and Monterey; Lars insists that we sack and burn Carmel. Salinas and Watsonville are absolute musts; Tony wants to see the refinery at Martinez. I study the map with a sinking feeling that if we divide our forces, we’ll never reach Century City with our elevator pitch intact.