Langtang 2
There would be a cheese factory and a man smothered in thick sunscreen. That was all Knipenbjorg had been told. He was to rendezvous with this man at Kyanjin Gompa and complete a full survey of his lodgings.
The jeep hurried along through the dust on the twisted road. Dhaba’s and little convenience stores were huddled under tarpaulin sheets on either side. The driver chewed paan and periodically spat red jets of sputum out of his window. The majestic Himalayas seemed to drag themselves out of the dirt in the distance and soar towards the clouds.
“Gotta get out of America for good man,” Trapp said, “America’s failings are hitting critical mass. Could come here and start a commune. Bit of cattle rustling as a side hustle. Rustle up these holy cattle and flog them over the border to those meat guzzling Chinese. You think I could herd cattle man?”
“You’re going to rustle up holy cattle under the cover of dark — you’d have to do it at night because the locals would be pissed — then trek with them through a 15,000-foot high Himalayan pass before flogging them on the other side to a fucking Tibetan nomad? And that’s a side hustle? Sounds like an all in fucking primary hustle Trapp. Give me a cigarette.”
“Need to start a backwater commune somewhere, relax and eat fish and vegetables all day. America’s a hellscape dude. Next election they should grease up the two candidates and let em wrestle for it man, let em wrestle in the Oval Office, winner gets to press the big red button and blow the whole place to hell. I can’t go back there.”
The downfall of the United States of America was Knipenbjorg’s long cherished dream. Not yet though. If it happened now he’d probably be reassigned to some shit hole country, like England. He was happy with the way things were going — a measured decline — America could completely implode later, when he was closer to retirement age and ready to go home.
“You love America Trapp, and fucking Trump. I think I saw you at the capital on January 6th with a stupid helmet on your head thinking you were inconspicuous.”
“Trump’s a half put together dotard with dementia dude. I’ve been eyeing up the Canadian border, I’d be the first American refugee if Trump got back in. But it’s not gonna be a dramatic coup like January 6th that brings the US down. It’ll be a slow burn man, like Rome. A few decades from now it’ll be a collection of feudal states. Trump will run the Deep South from a houseboat on the Mississippi River — like a geriatric Colonel Kurtz. New York’ll be underwater. Sleepy Joe’s kid’ll be a drug mule at the border.”
The driver pulled over for a piss break and chai.
Knipenbjorg dragged on his cigarette. A few decades from now — that sounded about right.
