www.MethowValley.org-2026

[tristanbgilb]

Truth, Life, and the American Dream

Truth, life, and the American dream — sometimes life is exactly what it seems, and sometimes it is not.
Still, I choose hope. I choose laughter. I choose the sound of children giggling, people caring for one another, hearts unburdened and free.

A heart must be free.
Living a little, liking it a lot — that feels close to heaven’s gate, close to eternity, where the quiet chambers of peace might exist.

Yet the world interrupts.

“Hello… are you friendly?”
“What do you want?”

The temperature rises. Anxiety builds. The body reacts — fear, sickness, the sense of danger closing in. Streets feel crowded with people grasping for their piece of the pie, even when it seems there is nothing left to share. Hope shrinks, fear grows, and responsibility blurs.

Still, there are gentle moments:
a tender touch,
a maiden of hope,
a life shared with loved ones, family, children — the simple blessing of belonging.

And I remind myself:

I have a heart of my own.
Not lost. Not hopeless.
Sometimes shackled, yes — but never without the possibility of a key.

Pain, loss, confusion — they can turn into anger and resentment if left alone too long. I know this. I’ve felt the short fuse, the firecracker temper. I’ve prayed:

Deliver me from my past and I will do better. Help me be better.

Love me first, so I can let love flow outward. Tempt me not toward despair.

There are moments of strange stillness — staring at walls, thoughts flickering like holograms, wondering how far I’ve come and how far I have left to go. I carry love for those who love me and try to release anger toward those who don’t.

And then there is grief.

My father left this world.
I miss him deeply — his toughness, his kindness, the steady example he set. When he died, I cried while younger voices sang farewell. That memory stays with me: sorrow mixed with continuity, endings mixed with beginnings.

From that loss came a quiet realization:

There is peace in growing day by day.
There is a present moment worth living.
There is a past worth learning from.
And there is faith — even when the future is uncertain.

I recognize my limits. I did not create myself. Life itself is a gift from something greater, something I respect as Creator. That belief steadies me when chaos presses in.

The world can feel rebellious — restless people, discontent without clear cause, noise without direction. But one truth keeps resurfacing:

Love is for everyone.

Even someone who wrestles with inner darkness can rejoice in light. My own faith in Jesus Christ, and the presence of the Holy Spirit as I understand it, became a turning point — not perfection, but hope. Not escape, but endurance.

Faith softens hatred. It quiets fear. It opens space for laughter again, even for tears that heal instead of harm.

So I try to sit still sometimes.
To ask: Who am I? What spirit guides me?
To choose kindness over resentment, patience over rage.

Because a safe and compassionate society doesn’t appear by accident — it grows from ordinary acts of love. From people deciding, again and again, to care for each other.

Hope is not naïve.
Faith is not weakness.
Kindness is not surrender.

They are how we move forward.

And I hold onto this:

Act with love.
Stay steady.
Have hope.

That is how hearts stay free.
That is how the dream survives.
That is how we build a world where people can live, laugh, cry quietly when needed — and still believe tomorrow can be better.

[tristanbgilb]

truth life and the American dream. living life as much as it seems. send me hope leave no fear. the giggle laughter of children. people caring for each other. plain as can be a heart must be free. living a little liking it alot heavens gate to eternity is where the chambers at.hello are you friendly. what do you want. I am not hot. temperature up. heart attack. stop to puke. streets filled with mobs wanting their piece of the pie, wanting something when there is nothing. no hope so full of fear. taking aim, who is self responsible. tender touch. maiden of hope. part of the pie life with her and the ones she has born. let it be known, I have a heart of my own not lost not hopeless but a sense of merriment hopeful incident. shackled but not keyless. on the way the government approved rendition. situation critical. so the pain and lostness leads to anger and resentment. deliver me from my past and I will do better. I must be better better than a firecracker with a shortened fuse. help me let me be love me first and let the hearts go free. tempt me not. horrible sensation. last sensation. sit and stare. hologram an the wall how far . taken within filled without for the love of the ones who love and the hate of those that hate let us be still. my dad left this world and how lonesome I am for him. his toughness and his kindness things I will always hold true to my heart. dad died and then I cried as the generation younger than I sang a farewell song. there is peace and a willing ness of growing day by day. I say there is now and a past of learning and a faith in living. the future is difficult to predict as I must concede I am created and without any power of my own. simple care. who goes there. is it he the spirit of kindness with the wants and needs hopes of laughter and being safe at ease. so it is said it is left to come the future dangling right before our eyes and liberties and justices that must be seen. hold steady. the insane drive my brain to a place of hopeless determination to be a road block to bring a future of their liking. take it from him, him who has created everyting there is only he is not created he is creator and I owe him this life and any others that may incurre. it is quite. sensations and rebellions. rebels without a cause only discontentness. let it be known love is for everyone. even I, with a devil that dwelleth in my heart has rejoice in the christ jesus with the love of the holy spirit of god so available to all that wish to recieve faith into their hearts. faith of good and not so this hating and fear. they are not me and My thoughts. seek and destroy. come and see. to the many must recieve and go free. free to laught. quietly crie.teach me to be withing and never letting go as the earth itself falls into the pits of hell of the mourning and the wonder without hope of faith quietly satans dreams living out themselves. only I once with this devil in my heart accepted the faith and life of jesus christ with a hope born in me to carry on. sit still and let me wonder, who is this man and whoes spell is he under. under the holy spirit and the turmoil of the saint Lucifer in my way as sainted by saint theresa herself upon the spirit on her shoulders and the love and prayers of determination. sit sill and have hope. act and love is the only way to gain a society we are safe and content and allowed to be the kindness in our hearts.

[tristanbgilb]

I do not think

[tristanbgilb]

Don't hold me back with unpleasant thoughts

[tristanbgilb]

Neutrino Acceleration

[tristanbgilb]

Cannabis For ALL

[tristanbgilb]

smile and clear cut

not so much hope

bob marley coloring book

[tristanbgilb]

Death

[tristanbgilb]

chatgpt as editor

Help on the Way

You have to fight
for your right
to party—
left and right,
then learn when
to lay the fight down.

People living life,
caring for each other,
learning that flight can be right
when guided by love, not fear.

Mastermind of time,
fragile ambitions need faith.
Stop here.
Go there.
Saint Lucifer, kindness first—
no vacant stare.

Reminding each other
to love one another.
The beauty of glory,
the story goes on,
singing a song
of tenderness—

a green lizard by the stream,
life moving quiet and clean.

Plenty and despair,
hopelessness and help,
the feeling of both
living side by side.

Anticipation of the great,
the might,
the right—
without plundering madness,
without being lost
or ungrateful for the dead.

The medical world searching,
cannabis solutions,
present moments rendered
while thinking of the past.

Wanting to know—
is ignorance happiness,
or is hope the answer?

Freedom’s laughter,
laughter and hope,
not so cynical,
not without prayer.

Truth or double dare,
wanting to grow,
finding new places,
leaving hatred behind.

Pray for life alive,
not death,
not alone—
but birth.

If birth has ever been,
joy can still be rendered.
Though I don’t know,
my soul must grow—
withering only toward the way,
not staying far away.

Pleasant.
Help on the way.

Jesus Christ,
Superstar,
bulletproof underwear—
faith with a grin.

Cops are chasing,
it’s mighty fine—
pull on over,
say you’re alright.

Ticket madness,
yes sir, no sir,
hoping for the best
in this world.

Let us be blessed.

[tristanbgilb]

you have to fight
for your right
to party
left and right
give up the fight
people living life
caring for each other
flight is right
mastermind
the time
fragile ambitions without faith
stop here
go there
st Lucifer kindness
without such a vacant glare
reminding each other
to love one another
the beautify of glory
the story is on
singing a song
tender ness
of the lizard
in green
the stream
plentiful despair
the feeling of hopelessness
and helpfulness
anticipation of the great
the might
the right
plundering in madness
the lost
without grateful dead
the medical world
cannabis solution
rendering the present
thinking of the past
wanting to know
happiness in ignorance
hopefulness
freedoms laughter
laughter and hope
not so cynical
not without prayer
truth or double dare
wanting to know
places to grow
the madness of hate
pray for death alive
not alone
but a birth
if birth has ever been
rendering joy
though I don't know
my soul must grow
wither to the way
staying far way
pleasant
help on the way
jesus christ
superstar
has the bulletproof
underwear
cops is chasing
its mighty fine
pull on over
plead you are fine
ticket madness
yes sir and no sir
hoping for best
in this world
let us be blessed

[tristanbgilb]

I will:

keep chapter order

preserve events, names, symbolism

keep the voice poetic and raw

expand visual detail without changing meaning

avoid “fixing” the story

This is a surreal road-opera, not realism.

THE GREATEST SHOW ON EARTH

Written by: Tristan B. Gilbert
Based on a true interior story
Genre: Surreal Road Movie / Musical / Spiritual Odyssey
Runtime: ~150 minutes
Tone: Mythic, intimate, funny, dangerous, tender

FADE IN:
CHAPTER 1
EXT. TWISP, WASHINGTON – DAY

A quiet mountain town.
Wind through trees.
A distant radio signal crackles.

KFAC-LP 105.5 FM
A sustained E MINOR CHORD hangs in the air.

INT. MODEST HOME – DAY

TRISTAN, reflective, praying quietly.

TRISTAN (V.O.)
In words I pray for time to give me another day.

Cut to—

EXT. SMALL HOUSE – DAY (MEMORY)

TERRY, older, wise, gentle.
A POODLE at his feet.

TRISTAN (V.O.)
Here I was—Terry’s poodle—gratefully serving my friend and elder.

Terry plays guitar.
Notes float like dust motes.

TRISTAN (V.O.)
There was a lifetime of wisdom in my dear friend.
The greatest guitar hero I ever knew.
So real.
Often quiet.
A place where chivalry never dies.

EXT. HUMBLE MUSIC CLUB – NIGHT (MEMORY)

Beer. Spirits. Small crowd.

Terry performs.
The room is awestruck.

EXT. TWISP STREET – DAY

A CLASSIC BMX BICYCLE rolls past.

EXT. DRIVEWAY – DAY

BRYCE, hood of a BLACK CORVETTE open, adjusting the carburetor.

Tristan rolls up on his bike.

TRISTAN
I need to get to George.
The Gorge.
Terry’s playing.
Eagle River Band.
Show of a lifetime.

BRYCE
No way.

Tristan pauses.

TRISTAN
Sell it to me.

BRYCE
Mr. President of the Black Panthers,
you don’t have the money.
This cannabis war wrecked you.

TRISTAN
True.

A long look.

BRYCE
Trade your GT Pro.

TRISTAN
No way.
That bike’s worth ten Corvettes.
Nathan the Great One built it.
Priceless.

BRYCE
Take it or leave it.

Silence.

Tristan hands over the bike.

Keys drop into his palm.

EXT. HIGHWAY 20 – DAY

The Corvette pulls onto the North Cascades Highway.

EXT. LARRY’S PLACE – DAY

Tires checked.

LARRY
You traded that bike?

TRISTAN
Brand new engine.

Larry shakes his head.

CHAPTER 2
EXT. TWISP COMMUNITY CENTER – DAY

A MOB OF PROTESTERS.

One man stands out:

PAUL — JESUS CHRIST SUPERSTAR

Holding a cardboard sign:

HOMELESS
HELPLESS
CAN YOU SPARE A DIME?

Tristan stops.

TRISTAN
What are you doing, Paul?

PAUL
Read the sign.

Tristan nods.

TRISTAN
I’m going to the greatest concert on earth.
Terry’s the headline.

PAUL
Opportunity of a lifetime.

EXT. TRAIN STATION – DAY

Fuel.
Cold beer.

TRISTAN
You got gas money?

PAUL
Only hundreds.

That will do.

EXT. HIGHWAY 153 – DAY

The Corvette crawls at 25 MPH in a 60 MPH ZONE.

Cars honk.
Snow. Ice. Deer.

TRISTAN (V.O.)
Breaking trail.
Being safe looked evil.

EXT. WRONG TURN – DAY

GPS glitches.

PAUL
This thing hasn’t been updated in twenty years.

They’re lost.

Cell bars flicker.

EXT. HILLTOP – DAY

Tristan calls RON.

RON (V.O.)
You’re almost here.

CHAPTER 3
EXT. RON’S DRIVEWAY – DAY

Hundreds of acres of CANNABIS.

TRISTAN
Give me flowers for Terry.

RON
CBD only.

Dogs wobble nearby.

RON
They ate my pot again.

Laughter.

Ron presses flowers—heat—CBD ROSIN.

RON
Legal.
2019 Farm Bill.

Ron hands Tristan a jar.

EXT. BACK ROADS – DAY

Potholes. Ruts.

PAUL
Let’s take this thing up Buttermilk Butte.

Tristan remembers—

A FORD TAURUS, flat tire, purple mountains, SOS call.

TRISTAN (V.O.)
I always had 911 Terry.

CHAPTER 4
EXT. SOUTHBOUND – DAY

Searching for I-90.

Traffic. Endless.

JOHN DENVER – “ANNIE’S SONG”

TRISTAN
Half the fun’s the tailgate.

They eat roadside.

EXT. HIGHWAY – DAY

DENNIS on a GOLDWING pulls alongside.

TRISTAN
Backstage yet?

DENNIS
After bratwurst.

He vanishes through traffic.

CHAPTER 5
EXT. CONCERT PARKING AREA – NIGHT

Music THUNDERS.

KENNY ROGERS echoes.

TRISTAN
Terry must’ve invited him.

Backstage security stops them.

SECURITY
Passes?

Stumbling explanation.

Then—

Recognition.

They’re waved through.

INT. GREEN ROOM – NIGHT

Dennis complains about tofu.

DEBBIE BOONE approaches.

DEBBIE BOONE
Did Nathan give you a GT Pro?

Tristan sings.

“You light up my life…”

She joins him.

CHAPTER 6
INT. BACKSTAGE – NIGHT

TV on mute.

NATHAN THE GREAT ONE on CNN.

Threats. Cannabis. Gilligan’s Island.

TRISTAN (V.O.)
President Tristan… most wanted.

EXT. STAGE – NIGHT

EAGLE RIVER BAND
MERLE HAGGARD
JOHNNY PAYCHECK

Chaos. Joy.

TERRY
You having a good time?

Guitar ROARS.

Final song: “WINDS OF CHANGE.”

Encore.

GLEN CAMPBELL enters.

Security grabs Tristan.

EXT. STAGE – NIGHT

“RHINESTONE COWBOY”

EXT. BACKSTAGE – NIGHT

TERRY
Get out.
There’s a bounty.

CHAPTER 7
EXT. I-90 – NIGHT

25 MPH again.

Sheriff pulls them over.

SHERIFF
We don’t like weed smokers.

Pause.

SHERIFF
Get out of here.

Salutes exchanged.

CHAPTER 8
EXT. HIGHWAY 97 – DAY

Multiple patrol cars.

Lights off.

Blocked road.

CHAPTER 9
EXT. OKANOGAN – DAY

SHERIFF BUDROW leads the way.

Bear hug.

BUDROW
Cannabis rescheduled today.
In your honor.

TRISTAN
Am I free?

BUDROW
Free—
but you’re going to Spokane VA.

CHAPTER 10
INT. PATROL CAR – NIGHT

Shackled.

PURTELL
Music?

TRISTAN
KFAC-LP 105.5 FM.

TERRY – “MAMA TRIED (LIVE)”

Spokane lights glow.

CHAPTER 11
INT. VA WARD – NIGHT

Locked door.

Private room.

Bolted bed.

TRISTAN
Luxury.

Coloring begins.

CHAPTER 12

Dronabinol.

Peace.

Stories of past restraint.

This place is different.

Kind.

CHAPTER 13

Dining room.

MARILYN MONROE
EINSTEIN
JERRY GARCIA

Art. Physics. Space travel.

Medication line.

NURSE
Hi Tristan.

Robin Williams appears.

Laughter.

CHAPTER 14

Drawing spirits.

War. Religion. Humanity.

Exercise yard incident.

Privileges revoked.

CHAPTER 15

Parents visit.

TRISTAN
Meet my dad—Crazy Horse.

Friends line up.

Later—

TRISTAN (V.O.)
My dad died.

Angel on the cliff.

Saved.

CHAPTER 16
EXT. VA EXIT – DAY

Doctor nods.

DOCTOR
Time to go home.

Outside—

A STAGE.

A CROWD.

TERRY
Greatest concert on earth—
for you.

Music erupts.

Sun breaks clouds.

REPORTER
Aren’t you the most wanted man alive?

TRISTAN
Found innocent by reason of insanity.

Dennis drives the Corvette.

Sirens escort them home.

FADE OUT.
THE END

[tristanbgilb]

make the script follow the original storyline. leave the story as intact as possible while creating the story into a hollywood movie script

Got it. I’ll keep the original storyline intact, preserve the voice, sequence, characters, and surreal logic, and translate it directly into a Hollywood screenplay format—not reinterpret, not sanitize, not reframe. Think of this as your story locked into script structure: slug lines, dialogue, action, pacing.

Below is a faithful screenplay adaptation, following your chapters in order, using your events and language as much as possible while making it filmable.

THE GREATEST SHOW ON EARTH

Written by: Tristan B. Gilbert
Genre: Surreal Road Movie / Musical / Psychological Drama
Format: Feature Film Screenplay

FADE IN:
EXT. RURAL HIGHWAY – DAY

A 1980 BLACK CORVETTE rumbles south.

Inside the car—

INT. CORVETTE – DAY

TRISTAN drives.
PAUL (JESUS CHRIST SUPERSTAR) rides shotgun.

The engine growls — powerful, newly rebuilt.

TRISTAN (V.O.)
So here we go. Jesus Christ Superstar and myself, headed south to find I-90. Expired GPS. No idea where we’re going.

Paul looks out the window, calm.

TRISTAN
My dad said George is where Martha’s Diner is.
At the time, my gramma hadn’t built it yet.

Traffic thickens ahead.

TRISTAN
Look, dude — we’re going to need a miracle to get through all this traffic.

In the distance—

JOHN DENVER’S VOICE drifts through the air.

TRISTAN
That’s the opening act for the greatest show on earth.

He sings softly along with “Annie’s Song.”

TRISTAN
It’d be faster to walk than drive to the gate.

EXT. ROADSIDE – DAY

The Corvette pulls over.

Tristan and Paul eat PLANTAINS AND RICE.

A GOLDWING MOTORCYCLE pulls up.

DENNIS removes his helmet.

TRISTAN
Hey Dennis — shouldn’t you be backstage warming up for Terry and the Eagle River Band?

DENNIS
Not before the bratwurst barbecue.

Dennis revs the engine.

TRISTAN
Get us backstage!

Dennis grins and weaves into traffic, disappearing.

EXT. CONCERT PARKING AREA – NIGHT

Music grows louder.

The Corvette finally stops.

INT./EXT. CORVETTE – NIGHT

Tristan steps out. His legs wobble.

TRISTAN
Shoot, Paul — I hear Kenny Rogers.

EXT. BACKSTAGE ENTRANCE – NIGHT

SECURITY blocks them.

SECURITY
Where are your passes?

Tristan stumbles through an explanation.

Behind him—

JESUS CHRIST SUPERSTAR
THE PRESIDENT

The guard freezes.

SECURITY
I… I can’t believe—

They walk past.

INT. GREEN ROOM – NIGHT

Dennis complains.

DENNIS
This tofu is terrible.

Across the room—

DEBBIE BOONE.

She approaches Tristan.

DEBBIE BOONE
Aren’t you the guy Nathan the Great One bestowed a GT Pro to?

TRISTAN
That was me.

Instead of explaining, Tristan belts—

“You light up my liiiiife…”

Debbie joins him.

Just them.

INT. BACKSTAGE – NIGHT – TV ON (MUTED)

CNN footage plays.

NATHAN THE GREAT ONE demands cannabis freedom.
Threatens to invade Gilligan’s Island.

TRISTAN (V.O.)
President Tristan… most wanted man on earth.

EXT. STAGE – NIGHT

EAGLE RIVER BAND, MERLE HAGGARD, JOHNNY PAYCHECK.

Crowd goes wild.

TERRY
You all having a good time?

CHEERS.

Final song—

“Winds of Change”

Encore demanded.

GLEN CAMPBELL walks out.

Security approaches Tristan.

SECURITY
Terry wants you onstage.

EXT. STAGE – NIGHT

“Rhinestone Cowboy”

Tristan sings with Glenn Campbell.

EXT. BACKSTAGE – NIGHT

Terry grabs Tristan.

TERRY
Get out of here. There’s a bounty. Dead or alive.

INT. CORVETTE – NIGHT

Paul rides shotgun.

They flee.

EXT. I-90 – DAY

The Corvette crawls at 25 MPH.

Snowy hills. Methow Valley.

A SHERIFF pulls them over.

SHERIFF
We don’t like weed smokers around here.

Tristan explains.

SHERIFF
You’re wanted dead or alive.
Get out of here before I lock you up.

They exchange salutes.

EXT. HIGHWAY 97 – DAY

Multiple sheriff cars block the road.

Lights off.

SHERIFF BUDROW steps forward.

He hugs Tristan.

BUDROW
Mr. President. Trump rescheduled cannabis today.
You’re free — but you’re going to Spokane VA.

INT. PATROL CAR – NIGHT

Handcuffed. Shackled.

DEPUTY PURTELL drives.

PURTELL
You want music?

TRISTAN
KFAC-LP 105.5 FM, Twisp.

They stream it.

TERRY – “Mama Tried” (Live)

Spokane lights appear.

INT. VA BEHAVIORAL HEALTH WARD – NIGHT

Locked doors.

A private room.

Bed bolted down.

TRISTAN
Back into the lap of luxury.

MONTAGE:

— Coloring self-portraits
— Singing
— Dronabinol pills
— Calm nights

INT. DINING ROOM – DAY

MARILYN MONROE
EINSTEIN

Einstein nods and leaves.

JERRY GARCIA laughs nearby.

They talk art, music, space propulsion.

INT. MEDICATION LINE – DAY

A NURSE smiles.

NURSE
Hi Tristan.

He swallows pills.

She laughs.

EXT. COURTYARD – DAY

Tristan jokingly announces—

TRISTAN
I’m an escaped mental patient.

The woman panics.

He apologizes.

Privileges revoked.

INT. VISITING ROOM – DAY

Tristan’s MOTHER AND FATHER arrive.

TRISTAN
Everyone — meet my dad. Crazy Horse.

Jerry Garcia. Robin Williams. Others greet him.

Later—

TRISTAN (V.O.)
Later my dad died.

INT. VA EXIT – DAY

Doctor shakes his hand.

DOCTOR
You’re ready to go home.

EXT. VA PARKING LOT – DAY

A STAGE.
A CROWD.
TERRY, DENNIS, LEAH.

Music explodes.

The sky opens.

Sunlight pours through clouds.

EXT. CROWD – DAY

A REPORTER finds Tristan.

REPORTER
Aren’t you the most wanted man on earth?

TRISTAN
I was found innocent by reason of insanity.

EXT. CORVETTE – DUSK

Dennis drives.

Sirens escort them home.

Methow Valley ahead.

FADE OUT.
THE END

[tristanbgilb]

THE GREATEST SHOW ON EARTH

A Surreal Road Movie

Genre: Musical Drama / Psychological Fantasy
Tone: Mythic, humorous, tender, unhinged, ultimately grounded
Rating: R (language, thematic intensity)
Runtime: ~120 minutes

FADE IN:
EXT. HIGHWAY – NIGHT

A CHERRY-RED CORVETTE crawls along at 25 MPH on a 70 MPH interstate.

Headlights whip past like judgment.

Inside the car—

INT. CORVETTE – NIGHT

TRISTAN B. GILBERT (50s) — sharp-eyed, worn, electric — grips the wheel.
His legs tremble slightly.

Beside him, calm and radiant:

PAUL
(quiet smile)
You hear that?

Faint music drifts through the night air.

TRISTAN
That’s Kenny Rogers.

Paul nods. Like it’s obvious.

ACT I — THE CONCERT
EXT. CONCERT PARKING LOT – NIGHT

Music ROARS louder now. Floodlights. Dust. Chaos.

Tristan steps out of the Corvette. His knees wobble.

TRISTAN
(shouting)
Shoot, Paul — I hear Kenny Rogers!

They move toward—

EXT. BACKSTAGE ENTRANCE – NIGHT

A SECURITY GUARD blocks them.

SECURITY
Passes.

Tristan stumbles through an explanation.

Before it falls apart—

The guard freezes.

Standing behind Tristan:

JESUS CHRIST SUPERSTAR
and
MR. PRESIDENT
(identities blurred, symbolic)

The guard swallows.

SECURITY
I— I just can’t believe—

They move past him.

INT. GREEN ROOM – NIGHT

Chaos. Legends everywhere.

DENNIS, grumbling.

DENNIS
Who ordered tofu?

Across the room—

DEBBIE BOONE.

Tristan pretends not to notice.

She walks right up.

DEBBIE BOONE
Aren’t you the guy who traded a GT Pro to Nathan the Great One?

Tristan nods.

Instead of explaining—

He BELTS:

“You light up my liiiiife…”

Debbie freezes… then smiles.

She joins in.

A private duet backstage.

EXT. STAGE – NIGHT

JOHN DENVER and KENNY ROGERS play.

WILLIE NELSON begs from the wings.

PRODUCER
Sit back, Willie. This show’s for heaven’s angels.

Willie laughs. Accepts it.

INT. BACKSTAGE – NIGHT – TV MONITOR

Muted CNN footage plays.

NATHAN THE GREAT ONE appears onscreen, ranting about cannabis freedom and Gilligan’s Island.

Tristan watches, unsettled.

Reality begins to bend.

ACT II — THE FALL
EXT. CONCERT – LATER

EAGLE RIVER BAND takes the stage.

Crowd ERUPTS. Punk kids mosh. Surfers ride hands.

TERRY
You all havin’ a good time?

The crowd ROARS.

Terry slams into a guitar riff.

Final song:

“Winds of Change”

Encore demanded.

GLEN CAMPBELL walks out.

Security grabs Tristan.

SECURITY
Terry wants you onstage.

EXT. STAGE – NIGHT

Tristan sings “Rhinestone Cowboy.”

For a moment—he belongs.

Then—

TERRY
(urgent)
Get him out of here. There’s a bounty.

EXT. HIGHWAY – NIGHT

Back in the Corvette.

Sirens flash distantly.

ACT III — CAPTURE
EXT. METHOW VALLEY – DAY

Snow. Pines. Stillness.

The Corvette crawls again.

A SHERIFF pulls Tristan over.

SHERIFF
We don’t like weed smokers around here.

Pause.

Then softer—

SHERIFF (CONT’D)
Get out of here before someone kills you.

They exchange salutes.

EXT. OKANOGAN COUNTY – DAY

Multiple patrol cars block the road.

No lights. Calm.

SHERIFF BUDROW steps forward.

BUDROW
Welcome home, Mr. President.

He hugs Tristan.

BUDROW (CONT’D)
You’re free. But you need help.

ACT IV — LOONY TUNE LAND
INT. VA BEHAVIORAL HEALTH WARD – DAY

Locked doors CLANK.

Bright colors. Calm staff.

Tristan wears shackles—grinning.

TRISTAN
I wanted to make an impression.

MONTAGE:

— Coloring self-portraits
— Singing loudly
— Dronabinol pills
— Night sweats fading
— Laughter

INT. DINING ROOM – DAY

MARILYN MONROE and EINSTEIN sit quietly.

Einstein nods to Tristan and leaves.

JERRY GARCIA laughs nearby.

They talk art. Space travel. Neutrinos.

Jerry listens. Seriously.

INT. MED LINE – DAY

A NURSE smiles.

NURSE
Hi, Tristan.

He swallows his meds.

Sticks out his tongue.

She laughs.

NURSE
You don’t have to do that here.

EXT. HOSPITAL COURTYARD – DAY

Tristan jokingly tells a woman—

TRISTAN
I’m an escaped mental patient.

Her fear hits him instantly.

TRISTAN (CONT’D)
I’m sorry— I’m joking—

Privilege revoked. Lesson learned.

ACT V — RELEASE
INT. VA EXIT – DAY

Doctor shakes Tristan’s hand.

DOCTOR
You’re ready.

Outside—

A CROWD.

A STAGE.

TERRY waits.

TERRY
We brought you a concert.

Music explodes.

EXT. PARKING LOT STAGE – DAY

The sky breaks open.

Sunlight pours through clouds.

Tristan stands among veterans.

A reporter approaches.

REPORTER
Aren’t you the most wanted man on Earth?

TRISTAN
I was found innocent by reason of insanity.

The crowd CHEERS.

EXT. CORVETTE – DUSK

Dennis drives.

Sirens escort them home.

Tristan looks out the window—peaceful.

FINAL SHOT
EXT. METHOW VALLEY – NIGHT

The Corvette disappears into darkness.

Music echoes faintly.

Not applause.

Breathing.

FADE OUT.

[tristanbgilb]

Chapter 16 — Going Home

The loony-tune world had been kind to me.
Safe.
Predictable.

But even good places aren’t meant to last forever.

The doctor told me it was time to go home.
I agreed.

Leaving was harder than I expected.
I mourned my new friends—
people who understood pain without needing explanations.
Outside these walls, emotions aren’t managed or scheduled.
They come all at once:
joy, grief, anger, love, regret.

Freedom, I realized,
is a kind of suffering too.

I packed what little I had and headed for the exit,
saluting the familiar security desk as I passed—
a small gesture of gratitude.

And then the doors opened.

Terry was standing there.

Just Terry.
A friend.
A familiar face in the real world.

He smiled and hugged me like nothing strange had happened,
like I hadn’t just walked out of a locked ward
back into the noise and uncertainty of life.

“There’s music today,” he said.
“For you. For everyone.”

And suddenly the parking lot didn’t feel empty anymore.
People were there—
veterans, friends, passersby—
drawn together by sound and shared presence.

A fiddle sang.
A guitar followed.
The crowd responded the way people do when something good reminds them they’re alive.

For a moment,
I didn’t know how to name what I felt.

Am I living?
Or just surviving?

Terry leaned close and said something simple,
something human:
“We’re here. That’s what matters.”

The clouds thinned and sunlight broke through—not as a miracle,
but as weather doing what weather does.
Still, it felt meaningful.

I thought about who I had been.
The harm I carried.
The anger I once fed.
The ways I had learned—slowly, painfully—to turn toward kindness instead.

Change doesn’t come as thunder.
It comes as choice.
Again and again.

The music picked up—
familiar rhythms, steady bass, voices that knew when to hold back and when to rise.
It wasn’t the greatest show on earth.

It was something better.

It was real.

Later, we left.
No sirens for drama—
just the road stretching out ahead,
the lights fading behind us,
home waiting quietly.

The Methow Valley doesn’t promise perfection.
It promises space.
Community.
Responsibility.

I wasn’t returning as a hero or a villain.
Just a person—
still learning how to live well
outside the safety of locked doors.

And that,
I understood,
was enough

[tristanbgilb]

Chapter 15 — The Visit

I went around meeting everyone,
making friends—
maybe not forever,
but for that moment,
and that was enough.

There’s a kind of understanding that forms in places like this,
an unspoken recognition
that we’ve all been somewhere
most people never visit.

Then my mom and dad arrived.

My new friends stepped back instinctively—
not out of fear,
but respect.
They didn’t want to interrupt something important.

Excited,
I waved everyone over anyway.

“Come meet my dad.”

One by one, people lined up.

There was laughter—
light, easy laughter—
the kind that feels like relief.

People said kind things.
They told my parents I was thoughtful, creative, funny.
That meant more to me than I expected.

I showed my dad what I’d been doing—
how I spin sometimes,
how dizziness can feel like freedom,
even when the world feels heavy.
He watched, steady and calm,
letting me be myself without judgment.

That mattered.

There were nurses, staff, patients—
all of us sharing one ordinary, extraordinary moment.

Later, my dad died.

He had been sick.
His time came the way time always does—
quietly,
without asking permission.

That loss stayed with me.

Death feels inevitable when you really sit with it.
Not dramatic—
just certain.
The mind can’t truly hold infinity or absolutes;
we only circle the idea,
never touching it.

I told my dad, while he was still here,
that life could be full of wonder—
that kindness mattered more than power,
that curiosity mattered more than certainty.

When my parents left,
my dad gave me a firm handshake.

Simple.
Solid.
Enough.

The people around me seemed brighter afterward—
not because he was anything supernatural,
but because goodness is contagious.

My dad wasn’t a god.
He was something rarer:
a steady human presence
in a world that often feels unstable.

I sometimes look back on moments in my life
when I was scared—
really scared—
and survived anyway.

Climbing out of danger.
Holding on when my hands were shaking.
Finding calm when panic said there was none.

When I think of “angels” now,
I think of instincts,
people,
voices of reason,
and moments when I finally listened.

Step by step,
I made it through.

I’m still here.

And for that,
I’m grateful.

[tristanbgilb]

Chapter 14 — Lines on the Wall

I mostly pace.

Slow circles,
back and forth,
coloring on the paper I’ve taped to the wall.

People imagine crayons—
bright, soft, childish.

But it’s not just that.
There are hard markers,
thick lines,
bold pressure.
No real pencils.

I draw the characters my spirit feels like it has worn
across time—
not as truth,
but as symbols.

Stories we inherit.
Stories we project.

At one point I remember learning about the life of Muhammad
and how belief, once rooted in compassion,
can be bent—
reshaped—
used to justify harm.

That thought troubles me.

Not the religion itself,
but what humans do to ideas
when fear gets involved.

Violence feels everywhere—
not owned by one culture,
not one faith,
not one diet,
not one nation.

We are a species at odds with itself.

War outward.
War inward.
Civil wars of identity breaking out everywhere.

I think about prophecy—
not as prediction,
but as pattern.

Ancient texts describing human behavior
that keeps repeating itself
when wisdom fails to catch up with power.

In the art room,
the Sea Witch and I draw side by side.

I hum, half-joking,
Poor unfortunate souls…
from The Little Mermaid.

She laughs.

Later, I learn she’s a poet—
recognized nationally—
someone who understands language
the way painters understand light.

I admire that.

Titles don’t matter here.
Presence does.

I have moments of warmth,
and moments where I realize
how easily a person can fool themselves—
especially when imagination runs hot.

Life isn’t always fun,
even when the vacation is all-expenses-paid.

Later, we go outside for exercise group.

Fresh air.
Movement.
A little freedom inside the fence.

I drift slightly away,
standing by myself,
and notice a woman walking nearby—
someone not part of the group.

Without thinking,
trying to be funny,
I say:
“I’m an escaped mental patient.”

Her face tightens—
confusion, concern, calculation.

I immediately regret it.

I apologize,
gesture toward the group,
the staff,
the structure keeping everyone safe.

She moves on.

I don’t know who she was,
but the moment has consequences.

My off-ward privileges are paused
for the next two days.

Fair enough.

Boundaries are part of healing too.

Back inside,
I return to my pacing,
my lines on the wall,
learning—slowly—
how to hold imagination
without letting it run the place.

[tristanbgilb]

Chapter 13 — The Company You Keep

When I enter the dining room,
my imagination immediately gets to work.

At one table, I see Marilyn Monroe and Einstein,
quietly deep in conversation—
beauty and brilliance sharing a moment
that history never scheduled.

Einstein looks up, notices me,
smiles gently,
says goodbye to his lady,
and wanders off into thought.

That’s how it works in Loony Tune Land—
your mind fills the room
with the people who shaped you.

At the nurse’s desk,
I spot Jerry Garcia—
laughing, joking,
at ease with staff and patients alike.

I laugh out loud,
remembering the time I traded
fifteen of my drawings
for one charcoal sketch—
a Jerry Garcia original.

In my mind, Jerry’s doing just fine—
selling autographed items online,
keeping the lights on with art and kindness.

I start telling him about my ideas—
how neutrino generators might one day
push spacecraft into something like warp drive,
how transparent aluminum and photons
could play their part.

I sketch it out—
Cobalt-60, high-energy photons,
different power levels,
theoretical propulsion lasting generations.

Jerry listens like only Jerry can—
not judging,
not correcting,
just making space for curiosity.

Then it’s pill time.

I get in line,
knowing the calm is about to deepen—
not numbing,
not erasing—
just helping the edges soften.

Jerry sticks around,
making sure I feel welcome.

The line shortens.

“Hi, Tristan,”
says the rockstar-blond nurse
as she prepares my meds.

“Dronabinol again,” she says kindly.
“Let’s keep you from crawling the walls.”

I thank her, swallow,
and—out of habit—
stick out my tongue.

She laughs.
“We don’t need that here.
No poison pills.
No forced proof.”

That matters more than people realize.

With my mind even clearer,
I notice Robin Williams—
or at least the idea of him—
decked out in patient scrubs just like mine.

“I sure missed you,” I think.
“The whole world misses you.”

In my imagination,
he grins and says he’s on permanent vacation.

Fair enough.

Around me, everyone has their own cartoon version—
gentle exaggerations of who they are.

Me?

I’m the Tasmanian Devil—
spinning energy, noise, creativity,
learning how to slow down
without losing myself.

Dinner is coming soon.
My stomach churns with anticipation—
a meat-free meal,
a carton of milk,
simple comfort.

And for once,
my mind isn’t racing ahead.

It’s right here—
safe, fed,
and allowed to wander
without getting lost.

[tristanbgilb]

Black Panther President on GT Pro gifted from Nathan the Great one

[tristanbgilb]

Chapter 12 — Making an Impression

I like to make a good first impression
when I’m given the chance
to take time off in Loony Tune Land.

That hasn’t always been the case.

There were other places—
times when I thought I was going somewhere safe,
only to be worn down,
restrained,
and chemically quieted without dignity.

Those days are behind me now.

The Spokane VA Loony Tune Ward
is the best place I’ve ever been—
and I’ve done time from California
all the way to Washington State.

I’m a veteran loony tuner,
and here—at Spokane VA—
kindness and respect prevail,
with room left for freedom of expression.

The dronabinol helps.
It’s the best loony tune pill I’ve ever taken.

The worries soften.
The nightmares ease.
The night sweats fade.

No problem.
These pills are medicine,
and I take them willingly—
with good effect.

Someone might wonder, though,
why I wore shackles
from the patrol car into the ward.

I should explain.

I asked for them.

Relentlessly.

I wanted to make an impression—
not out of fear,
but out of intention.
A strange choice, maybe,
but one that made sense to me at the time.

I’ve worn heavier things in the past.

Once, at Eastern State Hospital,
I ended up in a rubber room
and a straightjacket—
not because I was dangerous,
but because I spoke up
to protect someone vulnerable.

That was then.

This—Spokane VA—
is different.

This place replaces those memories
with something better:
a safe, proper place for veterans
who need care without cruelty.

So yes,
I may be the only voluntary patient
who ever arrived in shackles—
but once the officer left,
those came off.

And with a skip and a jump,
I knew good times were ahead.

Coloring.
Singing.
Good friends.
Great people.

Plenty of security,
but not the cold kind—
officers stopping by not just to watch,
but to talk,
to joke,
to make sure everyone feels safe.

I get scrubs.
I get underwear that fits.
Clean clothes.
Clean space.

Dignity.

And that makes all the difference.

[tristanbgilb]

Chapter 11 — Loony Tune Land

I pass through the locked door,
and right away I know where I am.

Loony Tune Land.

Not scary—
cartoonish.
Bright edges, soft corners,
a place where everyone is a character
and that’s perfectly okay.

I decide immediately:
I’m going to have a good time here.

They escort me to my own room—
private bathroom,
a bed bolted to the floor.

“Right on,” I think.
Back in the lap of luxury.

They hand me clean bedding
and a fresh set of scrubs.
Simple things,
but they matter—
comfort, cleanliness,
a sense of reset.

After settling in,
I wander down to the art room.

That’s where my vacation really begins.

Crayons.
Paper.
No expectations.

I sit down and draw a self-portrait—
bright colors, crooked lines,
honest in a way photographs never are.

Too much fun.

The days fall into rhythm.

Meals without meat.
Morning coffee.
Pills three times a day—
not as punishment,
but as structure.

Time slows down here.
No radio deadlines.
No roads to chase.
No crowds demanding anything.

Just routine,
color,
and the quiet permission
to exist without explaining myself.

And for the first time in a long while,
that feels like enough.

[tristanbgilb]

Chapter 10 — Radio in the Back Seat

So there I was,
in the back seat of the patrol car.

Deputy Purtell glances at me in the mirror
and asks,
“Would you like some music?”

“Yes,” I tell him.
“KFAC-LP 105.5 FM out of Twisp.”

I explain that I help program the station
for American Legion Post 143
in the Methow Valley.
It’s low power—
maybe a five-mile reach on a good day—
too far to pick up here.

“But,” I add,
“we can stream it on a phone
where there’s data.
www.KFAC.net.”

He raises an eyebrow.
“How do you know this is the right station?” he asks
as he taps it in.

I smile.
“I’ll know when I hear it.”

And then I do.

The familiar sound of the Methow Valley
fills the patrol car—
this time it’s my friend Terry
with the Eagle River Band.

I lean back
and listen to Mama Tried,
live from my old audience tapes—
Terry,
the guitar hero of the century,
right there with me again.

Then I hear Dennis,
Terry’s bass player,
politely asking listeners
to call the listener line—
509-341-0902—
and leave a message
for me to put on the radio.

I know those messages well.

A few already waiting.
Many more to catch up on.

Most of them are just me—
breaking into song,
sometimes funny,
sometimes awkward,
sometimes uncomfortable
being myself as a public voice.

And right on cue,
there I am on the air again,
singing an AC/DC line—

I’m a problem child,
I’m a problem child—

doing my best Bon Scott impression,
no alcohol required.

Outside the window,
the lights of Spokane begin to rise,
spreading across the darkness
like a quiet ocean.

We swing off Highway 2 east
and onto I-90 west—
not the fastest route to the VA,
but the scenic one.

Down the hill we go,
into the glow of Spokane,
over the river,
past Indiana Street
as it turns into Northwest Boulevard.

Then I see it.

The VA medical center
coming into view.

I laugh softly to myself.

“Well,” I say,
“finally—a vacation of a lifetime.”

For the second time in my life.

The car slows.
The gate opens.

This behavioral health ward—
for all the labels people give it—
is the safest,
most comfortable place
I’ve ever been put
when the world got too loud.

The music fades out.
The engine stops.

And for once,
I feel exactly where I need to be.

[tristanbgilb]

Chapter 9 — Escorted Home

It dawns on me then—
this isn’t an arrest.

It’s an escort.

President Tristan of the Black Panthers realizes
he’s receiving a hero’s welcome—
a safe passage to Okanogan,
the county seat.

And then I see him.

Sheriff Budrow pulls in right in front of me,
takes the lead like it’s a parade route,
guiding the way with calm authority.

In Okanogan, I step out of the Corvette.

Sheriff Budrow walks straight up to me
and wraps me in a huge bear hug.

“Mr. President,” he says warmly,
“today marks a turning point.”

He speaks of freedom,
of a nation learning balance—
liberty held together
with responsibility, security, and kindness.

In this story,
in this moment,
the struggle softens.

“Do you mean I’m free?” I ask.

Budrow smiles.
“You’re free to be who you are,” he says.
“And we’re going to make sure you’re cared for.”

There’s talk of Spokane,
of the VA—
a place where wounds aren’t punished
but treated,
where nerves worn raw by war and noise
are allowed rest.

Deputy Purtell opens the patrol car door.

Paul stands nearby.

I look at him and say, half-smiling,
“It’d be fun if you checked in too.
We could draw, color,
sing great songs.”

Paul shakes his head gently.
“I’ve got too much to do,” he says.
“No time for a vacation.”

They place me in the back seat—
handcuffed, shackled—
not as a criminal,
but as someone being carried
to where they need to be.

The door closes softly.

The car pulls away.

And as the road rolls beneath us,
I realize something important:

Sometimes freedom doesn’t look like open gates.
Sometimes it looks like being held safely
when the world gets too loud.

Locked up, yes—
but protected.

Cared for
in the land of the free.

The siren stays off.
The night is quiet.

And for the first time in a long while,
I let myself rest.

[tristanbgilb]

Chapter 8 — The Stop

As we enter Okanogan County,
just north of Wells Dam on Highway 97,
I notice a sheriff’s car parked along the road.

We pass it quietly.

In the mirror, I see the deputy—Purtell—
pulling out behind us,
no lights, no siren.
Just there.

Paul looks over at me.
I don’t say anything.
I already know.

Up ahead, the road narrows.
Sheriff’s cars sit across both lanes,
not chaotic, not aggressive—
calculated, calm, complete.

Then, one by one,
they move.

They pull forward,
opening the road just enough,
and then slide into position safely in front of me.

I ease the Corvette to a stop.

The engine idles, steady.
The music is gone now.
So is the rush.

This isn’t a chase.
This is an ending—or maybe a beginning.

I put my hands where they can be seen
and step out slowly.

The air is cold.
The river nearby hums low and constant,
like it’s seen this before.

A deputy reads my name out loud, carefully:
“Tristan B. Gilbert.”

He pauses.

“President of the Black Panthers,” he adds,
not mocking, not impressed—
just stating what’s written.

I nod.

Paul stays in the car, untouched,
exactly as I knew he would be.

No shouting.
No violence.
No spectacle.

Just law,
standing in the road,
waiting to see what kind of man
I decide to be.

And for the first time in a long while,
I feel strangely calm.

Because I chose this road.
I didn’t run.
I didn’t hide.

The Corvette ticks softly as it cools,
the night presses in,
and the Methow Valley—
my valley—
feels farther away than ever
and closer than it’s ever been.

[tristanbgilb]

Chapter 7 — The Long Way Home

So down I-90 we go once again,
the Corvette creeping along at twenty-five miles an hour
in a seventy-mile zone.

Back toward the reservation,
back toward the Methow Valley—
a place of peace and loving days,
where the sun often shines
and the precipitation is often frozen.

It’s the only way.

My home is protected, they say,
by sasquatch and hippies alike.
A valley watched over by stories and kindness.
The people there look out for one another—
that’s how you survive
in a place this beautiful and this harsh.

The natives of my tribe
would never turn me in.

But they did all the same.

A twenty-million-dollar bounty
has a way of changing things—
suddenly a lot of hillbillies are drunk,
chainsaws roaring,
money louder than memory.

I’m the one they take.

Paul—Jesus Christ Superstar—
is left unharmed.

“We don’t like you weed smokers around here,”
the sheriff tells me.
“We’re just going to have to take your car
and everything in it.”

I tell him, calmly,
“I’m a Panther president
on important business.”

He says he pulled us over
for doing twenty-five in a seventy—
somehow the safer speed
made us look suspicious.

“I see you’re wanted dead or alive, Mr. President,”
he says quietly.
“There are folks who’d rather see you gone
than allow cannabis freedom in America.”

He pauses.

“Now get out of here,” he continues,
“before I lock you up
and make you a prisoner of war.”

“Thank you, sir,” I tell him.

And we roll on.

I know in my bones
that sheriff was just and righteous.

He waves us forward with a salute.
I salute him back.

Both of us knowing
there are roads in this valley
where evil isn’t welcome.

Here in the Methow,
people watch out for each other.
They help each other survive.

Some say I’m a madman
driving icy roads in a Corvette.

Looking back,
I’d say I was reckless—
and wrong—
except for one thing:

I knew how to pray.
Truly. Faithfully.

Paul looks over at me and says,
“Let’s turn ourselves in at Okanogan.
Sheriff Budrow will make sure
you get a fair shake.”

“What do you mean we?” I ask.
“I’m the one they want.”

Somehow word got out—
that I’m President of the Black Panthers—
and now I’m wanted dead or alive,
twenty million on my head.

“I’ve heard nothing about anyone looking for you,”
I tell Paul.

He nods.
“I know,” he says.

And with that,
we turn toward Okanogan, Washington—
not running anymore,
not hiding—
but choosing the road
where truth stands a chance.

The Corvette hums steadily beneath us,
and the valley opens ahead,
quiet and watchful,
as the night begins to listen.

[tristanbgilb]

Chapter 6 — Heavens Angels and the Last Song

The music keeps rolling—
John Denver and Kenny Rogers
at the height of their awesomeness,
voices smooth as memory itself.

Backstage, Willie Nelson is pacing,
begging for a chance to join them on stage.

“Sit back, Willie,”
the producer of the greatest show on earth tells him.
“This one’s for Heaven’s angels only.
You’re an earthly angel—
you’ll have to wait your turn.”

A television hangs backstage,
on but muted.

I glance up.

There’s Nathan the Great One,
interrupting regularly scheduled programming,
demanding cannabis be legal
so people don’t have to suffer needlessly.

The images are absurd and intense,
like a dream stitched together from headlines and fear.
Nathan keeps talking—
grand plans, impossible places,
rhetoric spiraling into spectacle.

Beside him on the screen is President Tristan,
identified as holding the lowest rank of all—
beneath everyone
except those who stand against goodness itself.

The message underneath it all is clear to me:

Hate in the streets.
Anger everywhere.
Riots and recklessness
are not the solution.

Then CNN flashes an emergency alert—
loud red banners, silent captions.

The story claims the president is running low on cannabis,
that suffering is spreading,
that freedoms are being argued over like contraband.

It’s all so exaggerated it borders on parody—
a world that can’t tell the difference
between medicine and menace,
between care and control.

I look away.

Because the concert keeps going.

The Eagle River Band takes the stage—
Terry, Merle Haggard, Johnny Paycheck.

The crowd explodes.

Punkers moshing.
Crowd surfers riding waves of hands.
Joy breaking through the chaos.

Terry steps up to the mic.

“Everyone having a good time?”

The roar is deafening.

“Well,” Terry grins,
“I’m going to put an end to it right now.”

His guitar roars instead—
loud, alive, unstoppable—
and the crowd dances like life depends on it.

For the final song,
Terry and Merle sing Winds of Change,
a song they wrote together.

The crowd cheers,
begging for one more.

And then—unbelievable—
out walks Glen Campbell.

Before I can even process it,
security approaches me.

“You’re needed on stage,” he says.
“Terry’s orders.”

That’s when I remember—
Terry telling me years ago
he’d get me out on stage one day
to sing Rhinestone Cowboy
with Glen
and our friends.

We sing.
The lights burn bright.
For a moment, everything feels perfectly aligned.

Then it’s over.

Backstage again,
Terry grabs us and says low and urgent,
“Get the hell out of here.
Right now.”

There’s talk—
rumors of attention,
stories growing legs of their own.

So we run.

I dive into the Corvette.
Jesus Christ Superstar rides shotgun.

The engine turns over—
that deep, familiar rumble.

And just like that,
we’re gone again,
back into the night,
the music still ringing in our ears,
the road opening up ahead of us.