Here is the 50th New Message from the Future. We reach a speed of 110 miles per hour which strains Castaneda's driving skill not at all as he carelessly drapes his left hand over the steering wheel and smokes with his right, pointing the cigar at whomever he is speaking and occasionally tapping ashes onto RHB's lap. It is not long before the whine of our engine is drowned out by the throaty blast of two dozen Harley Davidsons that bear down on us despite our speed. Driving each one appears to be an Indian warrior in complete regalia.
Death arrives as an evening campfire.
We have been playing a shaman's game. Immediately, a dozen cold Coronas appear on a dark wooden table in front of Castaneda. This Player who appears before us most nights is a shaman. Every shaman has a plan, you would call it an agenda in your language of scientific constipation. He plays his music for us to dance to his tune.