I watched Calvin start to kick the stray food around the campsite with his romeos and felt detached from my body, as if I was watching everything unfold from the safety of behind a TV screen.
“What the fuck is this shit?” Calvin turned and screamed at me, the fire in his eyes reminding me I was not watching a movie.
“Hey,” I tilted my head back and screamed up into the night air. “If you’re out there, Roger, this isn’t fucking funny.”
The only answer I got back was the cold howl of the wind which tickled the short whiskers of my three-week-old beard. I looked over at Calvin again and saw him sitting on a cooler with his head in his hands, a fresh beer in his hand.
My unease about the cleanliness of the blood rushing through Calvin’s blood began to rise, but my focus was quickly drawn away by another thought sparked by taking another look at the GoPro strapped to the front of his forehead.
Calvin and I hunched over the GoPro in the light of a freshly-lit fire and tried to fight off the cold while we squinted at the little screen on the box camera.
“Here,” Calvin said and stopped rewinding the footage. “This is right before your dumb ass shot those fireworks at us.”