November 03, 2020.

America The Idiot Death Cult can't find his shoes. "Where are my shoes!" announces America The Idiot Death Cult to the empty room. "Hello, shoes!" he continues.

America The Idiot Death Cult can't find his shoes anywhere. "I sure wish I could find my shoes," he says out loud. This doesn't reveal his shoes, which doesn't seem fair. "This is deeply unfair," growls America The Idiot Death Cult.

America The Idiot Death Cult feels pretty bad about himself. Nothing seems to be going right for him. Things feel pretty sick and wrong lately. He keeps waking up covered in sweat and chewing on his own hand so hard it draws blood. America The Idiot Death Cult knows that he used to be a good person with hopes and dreams and stuff, because that's what people keep telling him. But America The Idiot Death Cult doesn't know any more.

America The Idiot Death Cult remembers a phrase called "Manifest Destiny". He wonders if that's where his shoes are. He doesn't know what a Manifest Destiny is but he remembers it felt really good and that he would go there and come home covered in bruises and with pockets full of other peoples hair and teeth. "Manifest Destiny!" he shouts. His shoes don't appear.

America The Idiot Death Cult takes the gun out of his backpack and aims it at a picture of a woman that he hates (not because she's a woman, he reassures himself, but knows that's a lie). "Pow! Show me the shoes!" he shouts. He doesn't fire, because that's against the terms of his rental agreement.

America The Idiot Death Cult puts the gun in his mouth and tongues it. It tastes like metal. "Yum," he says, but the word is muffled by the muzzle of the gun.

"Where the hell are my shoes," grumbles America The Idiot Death Cult through a mouthful of gun. He pulls the trigger, like he's done so many times before, but this time is worse, somehow.