EPISODE 14
the Unabashed
Field Notes from Thacker Pass
06:17am:
Good morning, desert dreamers!
Warrin Bicknell here, standing on a wind‑scoured basalt knob above the world’s most bubble‑gum‑pink puddles.
Thacker Pass looks as though someone spilled rainbow sorbet across Mars. Ethacle Robotics owns the lithium brine works below, and the ponds hum like an over‑caffeinated beehive.
Security drones circle overhead. I tip my hat. They don’t seem to notice me. Bit rude.
Cryptic Corporate Chemistry
06:32am:
A friendly wrench‑turner inside the fence swears the company spikes its brine with an unregistered reagent. The payoff is said to be more lithium per litre (and more bonuses per board member), but fewer fish per stream.
Seems they figured, we’re in the desert anyway, so who the hell needs to worry about fish?
I dip a sample at a seep; the liquid fizzes in my glass vial and smells like burnt popcorn and public pool water. Seven miles down‑slope soybeans drink from this aquifer. As Joni Mitchell sang, you don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone.
Featured Specimen: Laughing Firecap
7:15am:
I came seeking mere corporate crookery, but seem to have uncovered something truly remarkable.
Between sage brush tufts sprout popsicle‑sized mushrooms the colour of emergency‑exit lights. Caps glitter with tiny sunbursts, and when I shade them the gills glow ember‑orange.
The aroma hits like candied tangerine with a kerosene kicker.
I christen them Laughing Firecaps (Psilospora ignisfunghi).
Three caps ride into my specimen jar where they almost seem to vibrate, though perhaps that is only the wind.
Smoke if you got ‘em
7:52am:
I spot a greater roadrunner (Geococcyx californianus) anxiously sampling a bit of laughing firecap at the edge of the brush. Curious, I follow it.
Five minutes later, Camera A tracks this same roadrunner sprinting across the service road with a lit Marlboro Light clamped in its beak.
Five more birds follow, feathers slicked back like 1950s greasers.
They huddle behind a mesquite and pass the butt. Where exactly they found matches or figured out how to light them, I surely do not know.
One bird steals the butt mid‑drag and a high‑speed chase ensues. I’m suddenly reminded of Tom Petty: “I’m learning to fly, but I ain’t got wings.” These birds settled for lung cancer instead.
A Furry Fight Club
9:15:am:
At the edge of a patch of sagebrush, a black-tailed jackrabbit (Lepus californicus) nibbles on a morsel of firecap.
For a while he sits contemplatively still, seemingly awaiting something oncoming. I think for a moment maybe it senses me. Then his ears shoot up and he dashes off across the desert.
I finally catch up with him at a dusty arroyo, where a crowd of a dozen or so desert critters form what appears to be some sort of fight circle.
Two hares trade rapid‑fire jabs while one of those chain-smoking roadrunners from earlier officiates and takes bets, nudging seed wagers toward the winner. The loser limps away, licking his wounds, tumbleweeds rolling behind him.
What on earth is going on with these mushrooms? Must explore further. Could be onto something big!
The Iguana Barons
12:03pm:
Searching for more of these mysterious fungi, I come to an abandoned shed somewhere in the desolation, overgrown with patches of laughing firecap, where I also see a family of iguanas have been feasting on the caps.
As I come closer, I can see eight desert iguanas in total, each guarding it own personal heap of buttons, thimbles, and tarnished pennies. I marvel at how long it must have taken for them to collect these.
I step a bit closer. The alpha charges, tail whipping like a bullwhip at a barn dance. A heavy snap from his jaws almost takes my hand off.
Needless to say such odd behavior has been as yet unobserved in these particular species.
In no time, a decision is made. I must see for myself what these mushrooms are all about!
sacrificing my body… for science!
1:49pm:
For the sake of empirical knowledge and the pure thrill of discovery (and because my producer loves ratings), I slice half a Firecap and sauté it in canola oil in a cast iron pan over an open fire, noticing a meaty, earthy aroma that’s unexpectedly pleasant.
After a few minutes, I slice off a piece, raise it to my mouth, and chew. The flavour is burnt citrus nostalgia.
The horizon exhales back at me.
2:08pm:
My ears ring as the sand around me liquefies into orange sherbet.
A twelve‑foot mushroom wearing mirrored aviators strolls up, voice smoother than late‑night radio static. He calls me by name.
TAKE HEED, WARRIN! YOU ARE IN GRAVE PERIL! A DETRIMENTAL MECHANISM THREATENS YOUR SAFETY AND THAT OF YOUR BRETHREN!
Grave peril? Detrimental mechanism? The words fizz in my brain like champagne bubbles.
I clear my throat and answer the fungus.
“We are the subjects and objects of our own peril. We built an economy that tallies carbon only when it can sell the right to emit it. Rivers become ledgers, forests become debit lines, and a marketing squad paints the balance sheet green when it bleeds red.”
The giant Fungus nods. Spores sparkle, as if in applause.
“Everyone’s sipping smog smoothies through stainless-steel straws and calling it progress,” I continue, words spilling faster than wine off cracked marble. “We paved over paradise, wrapped it in plastic, and then charged interest on the damage we left behind. Oceans sit on death row while CEOs auction the execution livestream and call it shareholder value. We dig holes in the future just to bury yesterday’s receipts, then frame the crater as a visionary sculpture. Kidneys of the Earth, those wetlands and ice sheets, are repossessed each quarter by the bank of quarterly growth, and the late fees will end up paid by species no one’s bothered to name yet. Meanwhile, politicians wave carbon offsets like carnival tickets, promising every ride is guilt-free even as the midway burns.”
“Wildlife never invoices trauma, yet the charges mount in nicotine-addicted birds, fist-fighting jackrabbits, and robber baron iguanas, hoarding thimbles and buttons like their souls are for purchase. We hide the pillage behind this word externality, which really means somebody else’s heartbreak. Unregulated capitalism does not simply privatise wealth; it privatises oxygen, sunlight, even memory.”
The Firecap says naught. I draw a sharp breath and continue.
“We send ecosystems the bill for our convenience, then act shocked when the collection agency shows up wearing feathers and fangs. A roadrunner gasping on cigarette filters is just a footnote in quarterly earnings, but it writes a headline in the language of extinction. Every life lost is compounded interest on debts we pretend are uncollectable. The accountants shall label it ‘non-material,’ yet the ledger is tattooed on the sky in wildfire ink. You cannot amortize a river’s grief or refinance an atmosphere once it hits sub-prime, no matter how many green initiatives you print on your prospectus. Keep borrowing from tomorrow, and tomorrow will soon repossess today.”
“Gil-Scott Heron warned that the revolution will not be televised. I maintain that it will be live-streamed in 4K, closed-captioned in every language, and mirrored on a thousand pirate servers so the blackout switch stays useless, provided we keep the batteries fat and the routers feral.
“We must tear the extraction engine apart, joint by oily joint, compost its carcass, sow wildflowers, and raise community farms and worker-owned co-ops in the mulch.
“Let the gears rust into playground swings, let the smokestacks become organ pipes that howl when the wind shifts. We will crowdfund justice with bottle caps and back-pay, surge-price empathy during market crashes, and syndicate hope on the dark web where algorithms fear to crawl.
“From each according to ability, to each according to their need, with mandatory siestas for overstressed iguanas and universal dental for jackrabbits that attempt to punch above their weight class. No more dividends for daylight robbery, only profit-sharing in photosynthesis!”
The Fungus laughs, flips me a spore-dusted guitar pick, and dissolves into Bowie crooning “Ch-ch-changes” while comet-bright spores rise like ticker tape over a brand-new parade route.
I awake beneath a deepening sky, mouth tasting of smokey meat and orange zest.
Camera B captured every rant in 4 K. Only, in the footage, I appear to be naked, and talking to the sun-bleached skull of a wildebeest long-passed.
Still, my moment of desert clarity sticks with me long after the effects of the Firecap have worn away.
Friends, if a Ray‑Ban‑wearing fungus can diagnose systemic rot, surely our elected officials can manage a glance.
Phone them. Ask why reagent X sleeps outside public record. Flood BetterEarth’s helpline and demand refunds for every cigarette‑addicted roadrunner. Post the screenshots so the hold music becomes a protest anthem.
Freedom advertised as all‑inclusive still costs someone’s aquifer. Until next wander, keep your hearts wild and your voices loud, and never lick glowing fungi unless the camera is rolling.
Whimsy forever,
Warrin Bicknell
This website is a work of fiction and satire, created for storytelling purposes within the Rob Boss universe. Any resemblance to actual events, persons, or organizations is purely coincidental. No real-world actions, individuals, or companies are depicted.