LAST CAMPSITE ON THE LEFT

The night we left Toronto we found a campsite and drove through the open, unmanned gate. Looking for a dump station (our house stank of festival toilets again) we manoeuvred around the lanes spying for signs of life. There were none. It was like a ghost town. Abandoned trailers sat lifeless, while their war-veteran-patriot-owners sat in hollowed-out tunnels plotting the revolution or a clock tower massacre. We walked around and saw the lonely, distant silhouette of a man, of course a murderer… our murderer… chopping imaginary wood with an axe. After checking out the dilapidated shower room, again the domicile of axe-wielding homicidal maniacs, we investigated further into the creaking, rusted dark. The lights surely hadn’t worked this decade, perhaps this century so we hooked up for free electricity and locked ourselves in; certain we would be bumped off in the night.

Next morning we made our escape from what we thought was a free stopover only for the owner to show up as if by magic (like the shop owner in Mr. Benn)and charge us twenty bucks for the pleasure of almost being butchered in our sleep.