There they were, in the jungles of Sierra Lone; Slim in a haze of smoke and blood, and Swingin' Dick at the high port watching the darkening jungle. Inside, a Poro sorcerer talking to some journo with more balls than sense. Who knew that tarot was even a thing in the African jungle?
Over and over, the Death card displayed, calling our past, foretelling our future; that poor journalist didn't know whether to shit or go blind.
Through a collaboration with VICTORWRENCH, this shirt is a living reminder of those dark, hazy days and nights living on far too many opiates and a lotta good karma points.
"Sweat, weightlessness, and wonder...the shaman chased a run and blew it back in my face.
This is having your fortune told in West Africa; this was cadging a smoke with a Poro witch doctor. I couldn't tell if the flashes in the distance was lightning over the jungle, muzzle flashes writ across the sky, or the smoke haze playing tricks on my mind. Sorcery and sacrifice, and the unlikely arrival of tarot cards in the middle of a war zone.
Through the door of a mud-walled hut with a satellite dish perched precariously atop came death, but without a pale horse. It was a skeleton, with night vision goggles tipped back on its head. It was looking at me quizzically.
I heard the chirp of an encrypted radio. Grab your gear, it said, in a cannibal's voice. It's almost hit time, the Reaper said, we need to step off.
Dude, Slim said, staring at me doggedly. What are you looking at?"
- from the autobiography of Ben Urich (noted war correspondent)