What have I learned about myself in my gonzo absence? For starters, AI intelligence is no more disturbing than human intelligence, it’s just that AI hasn’t slammed a twelve pack of beer and texted its ex at 2am.

We live in the future now, and I’ve decided to act like it. I can go to the grocery store naked. They bring the stuff out and load it. If the truck breaks down, I have roadside assistance; bought and paid for. If for some strange reason I need pants, a drone can fly them to me.

Anyone who disapproves of this lifestyle is just pissed that they can’t or don’t live it. Shut up and take it. I did. It feels great.

Life is the same everywhere, it’s just that the local powers that be have convinced us this is normalcy. Who are we to doubt it? Independent thought is the enemy, right? On this planet, at least.

I’ve also learned that open mics in the big city display two things; old people who sing about pain, and young people who sing about societal inappropriate touching at sleepovers. What else are they going to sing about; They haven’t lived yet, and exploration is imperative to doing so. It’s okay to sleep with your best friend as long as you don’t try to screw it up with a relationship. That’s when it all goes straight to Hell.

Let’s back it up for clarity; a tad further for those not in the know.

The abridged version says I stopped seeing ghosts (I hope; at least for nearly the last decade), I had a short-lived, interesting horror/journalism thing, I moved away from my hometown, and I’m playing guitar. The country is in shambles, and I’m in my early fifties. I’ve still got enough life left in me to endure the shenanigans of the coming revolution/destruction.

Since the penning of my last memoirs – my previous entry being “Diary of a Gonzo Ghost Hunter”, which I lost in a divorce. I haven’t spoken to my co-author in ten years so I’m unsure as to what befell the UK version.

About me…

I went to the military instead of college. I needed pain, not education. College teaches writers how not to get sued. Your average reader couldn’t care less about typos and misspelled words, unless they’re in abundance; carelessly and unprofessionally. How can you successfully write about life unless you’ve lived?

When I stopped chasing the dead, I started living. It’s how I was living that made it all so questionable. That’s where the next story began.

“Are you sure you’re ready for this?” asked the borderline psychotic pseudo criminal who I knew as my brother in law.

“I’m ready for anything,” I replied with confidence.

I wasn’t ready.

I remember it as though it were only yesterday. Yes, I’ve said that more times than I can count during my lifetime, but I seriously remember it as only it were yesterday. Really yesterday. Like, twenty four hours ago yesterday. In reality, it’s been damn near a decade. It’s the lunacy that makes it feel like zero time has passed.

My name is Dare Cloud. I’m an author who, up until recently, has struggled between a day job and writers’ dreams. Am I Stephen King? No, but neither is Stephen King anymore. Am I Jack Ketchum or Edward Lee? No, I’m not even that, but I journey along those lines. I write indie horror and true crime podcasts. I’ve dabbled in journalism but that’s a crazy story for another page. I’m sure I’ll include it somewhere between the front and back covers of this book, but not now. There are more important things to discuss.

It was the summer of 2013. I was out of work and looking for the next adventure, but unsure which direction I wanted my life to take at age forty. After all, the world was supposed to end about six months prior to this decision so I didn’t really plan that far ahead. They made a movie about it and everything! Cusack and his summer blockbuster aimed and scaring the shit out of the casual moviegoer. To be quite honest, I didn’t even watch the damn movie. I refused to feed money to the Hollywood cash grab machine when it came to modern society’s possible demise. Screw you, Mayans. We’re still here. Sort of. The COVID-19 pandemic of 2020 would’ve made for a boring movie. Think of the money they would’ve saved on special effects though!

I was out of work by choice. For the previous eleven years of my existence, I’d swallowed my pride (and dumped out my weed) to become an employee of a Sheriff’s Office in my hometown. I’d gotten laid off from my cushy job in telecom after a stint in the Army. The September 11^th tragedies and Enron scandals smacked that company like an ass in the reverse cowboy. Smacked it hard! In turn, it punched me in the gut. Being a single father going through a divorce with four small children waiting in the wings wouldn’t allow me to travel. It’s damn near required for communications companies. So, I did the only thing I could do in those times to keep twenty cent packs of noodles on the table. I shaved off my facial hair and joined the ranks of the great un-stoned. I put on a badge. It didn’t mean anything, but I put it on nonetheless.

I say it didn’t mean anything but, in the end, it made me proud. A better paycheck would’ve made me a heck of a lot prouder but it was what it was. Not too many places in my hometown paid what the Sheriff’s Office did, and that still wasn’t enough to get ahead in life. I somehow became the king of the ghetto chefs and made it all happen though. I moved up the ranks and was even voted in as the president of the Sheriff’s Association. There was even talk of me running for public office like Justice of the Peace or County Commissioner. Then, I saw some toes in need of a good stepping. Who was I to deny?

They hated who I was and what I represented. I wasn’t a super conservative dude so I didn’t fit neatly into their star shaped glory holes. I got along with the inmates in lockup better than any of my coworkers with the exception of one or two. Don’t get me wrong, I did my job and I did it well, I just didn’t get off on starting fights with unfortunate people for the sake of letting out my frustrations. I’ve always said that most people become cops to repay society for the bullying they received in high school. Not all, but most. Modern society has yet to prove me wrong.

My “Captain Save-A-Hoe” nature forced me to help a friend in trouble. Her abusive husband had connections within my workplace and I tried to expose it. It backfired.

When I knew I’d lost the fight, I pecked out the most epic of resignation letters I could find. I walked office to office, handing out copies and offering autographs. When asked what I planned on doing for a living, I said I was going to find a way to write, travel, and grow a gnarly beard. Looking back on this day, I’d like to think I’ve kept my promises. I turned in my badge and uniforms and headed home to ponder the future. Adding insult to injury, my friend returned to her husband as though nothing ever happened. I’d sacrificed an eleven year career for nothing. Nothing. This is where friends will get you, and that’s why I don’t have any now. I have one for certain. Sure, I have acquaintances, but friends only screw you over or screw your wife. Sometimes both. We’ll get into that, don’t worry.

Luckily, I had enough money to my name where I didn’t need to go out and find a job right away. I spent the summer drinking, grilling, and playing video games like some sort of kid who never seemed to get it all out of his system. It was when the cash ran dry that I started to get a little desperate.

My current brother in law was sitting in my living room eating my food, using my electricity, and breathing my air when he decided to initiate the conversation about what I planned on doing for a living since leaving the department. I’m sure this wasn’t the first choice of conversations to have with me but it was something to do between smoking methamphetamine, breaking into peoples’ houses, and getting arrested. Yes, my well-being was the first thing on his mind! I thought to myself that I’d better jump in there and take advantage of it since it was a most unusual happening he ask about something so selfless! I told him I didn’t know. Honestly, I didn’t.

As a reminder, I began this chapter with the following phrases.

“Are you sure you’re ready for this?” asked the borderline psychotic pseudo criminal who I knew as my brother in law.

“I’m ready for anything,” I replied with confidence.

I wasn’t ready.

The way he described it sounded simple enough. Almost like some type of high profile security job. No big deal for someone like me, right? I’d done four years in the Army and eleven years in law enforcement. Surely I could ride around with priceless art and keep it safe from road pirates like in Fast and the Furious. I truly had no problem being a glorified Brinks guy.

I soon found out my boss and brother in law were pretty close friends. Have you ever noticed that like minded lunatics seem to run in packs? To make things easier, we could just call it the werewolf rule. This gentlemen also had a brother with the company who happened to be his superior. I tried my best to laugh behind my hand because I didn’t want to insult the guy who would eventually sign my paychecks. I wanted to ask him if his mother owned the rest, but I wanted it all to be a big surprise once I got my foot in the door. No need for spoilers before the horror show began, right?

In summary, I obtained my commercial driver license, shuttled fine art for museums and billionaires throughout the United States, and married my boss – who’s significantly younger than me. She’s majored in both fine art and psychology. I have all but successfully killed my old identity.

I live in the big city of Dallas now. Retired from the art industry, I’ve started a small production company and returned to my gonzo roots. If my calculations are correct, I’m a hippie artist during the early stages of an authoritarian takeover. Man, I couldn’t ask for a better ending to my story if I was writing it myself!

Let’s see where this door leads…