Grizzly Love stood at the tree line, arms crossed, watching the bulldozers in his mind like ghosts that never left.
Josey Wales leaned against a post, hat low, chewing on a thought the way men chew on tobacco.
Grizzly Love:
Oka wasn’t about golf. Never was. It was about land pretending it didn’t remember who it belonged to.
Josey Wales:
That’s how it always starts. First a flag. Then a fence. Then someone tells you it’s progress.
Grizzly Love:
Progress for who?
Josey Wales (snorts):
Same crowd every time. Billionaires with clean shoes and dirty maps.
Grizzly Love:
They wanted fairways over graves. Green grass over roots.
Josey Wales:
Funny thing—you hear what Donald’s saying now?
Grizzly Love:
I can guess.
Josey Wales:
He wants a golf course on Mars.
Grizzly Love (laughs, then stops):
Of course he does.
Josey Wales:
Not just golf. Casino too. Starbucks. McDonald’s. Red planet, golden arches.
Grizzly Love:
No water, no air—but somehow there’s room for tee times.
Josey Wales:
That’s the dream. Escape the mess they made here and recreate it somewhere no one can object.
Grizzly Love:
And when someone does?
Josey Wales:
They’ll say Mars was empty. Just rocks. Same story, different planet.
Grizzly Love:
That’s not exploration. That’s exile with better branding.
Josey Wales:
I call it billionaire apartheid. The chosen one and his chosen zip codes—now interplanetary.
Grizzly Love:
So Earth burns, and Mars gets valet parking.
Josey Wales:
Yeah. And they’ll call it destiny.
Grizzly Love (quietly):
Oka taught us something, though. Land remembers. People remember.
Josey Wales:
And no matter how far they run—
you can’t fence the truth. Not on Earth. Not on Mars.