Dispatch From Marshall Moose

I am worried. Nay, more than worried. Do you know where we ended the day yesterday? FLORIDA. Florida is where we have been before and there was no sight of Texas. In fact, Florida is a skinny, sandy, alligatory stick of land that goes out into the water and you can’t go anywhere near Texas from there. The technical term for that kind of land is semi-island. Not near Texas. But we set off in the early morning dew anyway and four hours later we were in …FLORIDA. I despair of seeing Texas and getting my hat. I long for the wide open plains, the buffalo majestically roaming over purple hills. I long for my first gunfight. That brings up another problem. The Driver said no guns. He knows nothing about Texas. You have to shoot someone every day or two. 

(ED NOTE: the obsession Cadillac has was formed early in his life. As you recall from previous flashbacks, he was born in the Maine woods near a rusty 59 Cadillac, hence the name. But he was fed as a pet -he never would have survived otherwise, by a kindly Maine hermit who had a VCR and two hundred old westerns on tape. So, C. Moose would watch through the window and How the West Was Won, True Grit, Stagecoach, Rio Bravo et al are all he knows about the west. And, no, it will not be necessary to shoot someone every couple of days. Sheesh.)

Late today I did have a glimmer of hope as we crossed a puny state, Alababba, I think, and got into yet another at this rate the Driver is bound to blunder into Texas some time. Maybe we will make it. Then I plan to drive a stagecoach - cause I cannot fit my magnificent seven tiered antlers into that thing so of course I will pilot the stage. I think you can shoot even more outlaws from there.