2020: A Spaced Odyssey

By Robert Catesby

2020: A Spaced Odyssey is an epic comedy about the tragedy of our time.

 

Join five friends from summer camp as they reunite for a harrowing yet hilarious quest, journeying across the southwestern United States in a new normal world full of outlandish opposition, the likes of which would have defied belief only a few short years ago. Don't take anything too seriously as you navigate the deadly minefield that is the politicization of every facet of today's American life. If you don't laugh, you'll cry, or you might even burn it all down. So come along and laugh with Beatrice, Antonio, Stacey, Barry and Les as they traverse these tricky times in a crazy, chaotic attempt to make America America again. Just don't forget to check your sanity at the door!

 

Warning: This material, much like the year it represents, is outrageously offensive throughout. In fact, again like the year, if you find you're not offended at least a little by any part of it, you may not have a soul.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robert Catesby
• Release date: Sep 25, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393698937

Book preview

Disclaimer

The story you are about to read is a work of fiction. All characters, specific locations and scenarios have been completely made up. Then again, you probably didn’t need this disclaimer. After all, it’s all far too far-fetched and ridiculous for any of it to be real, right?

2005

Camp Wuddafuk

LAST DAY OF CAMP, 1:44 pm

A handful of white fluffy clouds stood starkly against their deep blue backdrop; the majestic screech of a redtail echoed on the air as it soared over a tranquil mountain lake that reflected the white puffs on blue from above. A hodgepodge of old cabins and other simple structures dotted the slow slope to the south where a narrow dirt road stretched out through a sea of aspens and pines, crowned by a colorful wooden sign which read, Welcome to Camp Wuddafuk.

As birds chirped and critters frolicked, children big and small ran laughing and playing along the grassy knolls followed by their fatigued camp counselors. Others gathered at the bank of the lake and on a quaint wooden dock that stretched out several feet over the water. They jumped and splashed and laughed some more, blissfully reveling in the final days of summer. Further out on the water a solitary canoe drifted slowly by as a determined little boy sat on one end struggling to paddle for two beautiful young ladies who sat giggling on the other. Their innocent conversations of childlike inquisitiveness rang out to join the rest of the joyous ruckus in a harmonious melody that filled the entire valley.

My dad owns a hunting cabin near here.

Nobody cares. Fuck you, Kyle.

Yeah, Kyle. Fuck you.

On the far north end of the lake in a hidden inlet tucked behind a large sand bar another canoe had just run aground, the three occupants of which had disembarked and were heading toward an unassuming shack, far more run down than the buildings on the other side of the lake. Still, a third canoe carrying two more occupants was nearing the sandbar in close pursuit of the three kids entering the shack.

Check it out, boys! Beatrice Wu burst through the shack’s rickety door; her bright green eyes sparkled off a sunbeam that had slipped in through a hole in the roof. Her blue and white trucker hat matched the electric blue streak in her otherwise jet black hair, and a large black t-shirt clung loosely to her torso bearing the words ‘some kind of angel.’ She held the door open behind her as the two boys followed her inside.

Are you sure we should be here? The first through the door was Lester Schnitz, a pale, scrawny kid with a thick, nasally Midwest accent, thick, brown parted hair and thick, black framed glasses with even thicker lenses. He walked and stood with a perpetual cower as if he were absolutely positive someone was going to jump out at any moment to give him an atomic wedgie.

Of course we are! This shack has been built, outfitted and cared for since the very first season of Camp Wuddafuk over a hundred and fifty years ago by campers just like us, you know, those who don’t quite conform to the accepted social standards. Every year the veteran campers choose one person with whom to share the knowledge of the shack, to make sure the legend lives on. This year it was me. So relax, not only should we be here, we were chosen to be.

Antonio Brown entered next, ducking to fit through the doorway and closing the door behind him. His long dark legs stretched out from a pair of basketball shorts while his school’s team jersey draped loosely over slender shoulders. He strutted across the small room and looked about with genuine curiosity. The unpainted walls were adorned with old photos and lake trash: broken oars and bottles, old life savers and bikini tops. A rusted metal table sat in one corner, with a couple of chairs around it, next to a little dirty window which hardly permitted the passage of light through a thick film of grime and grit. On the other side of the window was a bookcase filled with photo albums, videos, board games and mementos. A heavy, fuzzy rug covered the concrete floor in the center surrounded by a futon and a bunch of bean bag chairs. A television sat on an end table opposite the futon; it was topped with a small radio.

This place is cool, Antonio observed as he picked up a lava lamp that was sitting next to the TV. And there’s power?

That’s right, bragged Bea. Back in the 90s some kids were able to acquire a couple solar panels from one of the bunk houses. It’s enough to run a few lights, the TV and the kegerator. And yes, there’s beer!

Sooo, I’m never leaving. He walked to the little fridge, grabbed a can and fell into the closest bean bag.

The door burst open again and a slightly chubby, unkempt face popped through. Waasssuup! The body attached to the chubby face followed it into the shack; a half-tucked aloha shirt bunched over dirty, cut-off cargo pants.

Barry! Antonio laughed so hard he rolled out of the bean bag. He stood and held his hand out for a high five. I swear, man, that’s never gonna get old!

Behind Barry was a small, unassuming girl. She had brown hair pulled up in pigtails, thick glasses, freckles and a big, smiling mouth full of metal. She was Stacey Beattle, a theater geek from Small Town, Kansas, with a flair for flare.

Slug bug! Barry yelled as soon as she stepped through the door and he and Antonio landed a punch, one on either shoulder, before turning for a quick retreat.

Ow! You assholes! She threw a wild swing toward Antonio which missed as she turned to chase Barry with her other flailing arm. Then she stopped and turned to soak in her surroundings. Wow.

Yeah, Beatrice agreed, this place is a pretty great hang. But we’re here for something better.

But wait, there’s more! Stacey boomed in an overly dramatic impression of an infomercial host. She giggled. No one else did.

Bea placed her clenched hands palms down over the coffee table, opened them and pulled back to reveal three large marijuana buds. Their fluffy, dark green leaves complimented bright turquoise undertones and a generous dusting of ice-blue crystals coated each decadent bud.

The group gasped.

It’s so beautiful, Barry lamented as a tear welled up in his eye.

Their host continued. You won’t find this strain anywhere else in the world. It’s so rare it doesn’t even have a name. The mother plants grow in the valley here. The combination of the altitude and climate, as well as the nutrients in the lake, is unique, but the Chinook winds really make the magic happen. They bathe the dormant mothers during winter; their sudden warmth causes an explosion of THC crystal formation. When the winds pass, the crystals are flash-frozen and stored in the plants until they flower, which only happens once every fifteen years. They say the high is so powerful it can actually transport you to a parallel universe!

That seems improbable, Lester interjected.

Holy Canni-brahma-bus! Barry took off his greasy old ballcap and launched it at Lester, striking him in the chest. Show some respect, man! She’s talking about the Kundalini, the pinnacle of the pyramid!

What pyramid?

The Pyramid of Barry’s Buzzes!

Oh yeah, that’s a thing, Beatrice added sarcastically. I’ve totally heard of it.

Barry continued, You see, at the bottom are your basic buzzes; you know, your buzzy buzz, body buzz, busy buzz and batty buzz. Now when you reach above those buzzes, you really start to fly – or fall. Here you find your breezy buzz, your busted buzz and your Buzz Aldrin. But above that... He paused for dramatic effect. Above that is what most people think is the top. Up there are two buzzes, the zen buzz and the nirvana buzz, and only a true buzzmelier such as myself can tell the subtle difference. He paused again and lowered his voice as if he’d a