I have a weird vision of me older, in my worn, battered and severely aged Tacoma. I'm cruising down the street with a old but freshly opened bottle of crown royal in one hand and my Glock in the other. I'm slowly passing the burnt out husks of cars and buildings, all overgrown and decrepit as nature reclaims it. I slowly bring the truck to a halt as I pick up my rifle from the back seat and line up a shot on a rabbit, before I pull the trigger someone wings a shot over my head and I hunch down. I slowly raise back up to see where the shot came from and bump the power knob on my radio and this song comes on. More shots ring by me as I flop the rifle onto the dash and unload magazines, I end up dumping the clutch and roasting tires as I laugh madly, shooting my rifle and taking a pull off the bottle.