The Quest for the Missing O - Keep a song in your heart and a revolver in the hand

The Quest for the Missing O

as told by Narcisia Olimpia Eleonora Maria Isabella Colonna Aldobrandi Normanni of Anguillara Sabazia, slightly sunburned

Lately, I’d been throwing myself into all sorts of virtual adventures on the Ybox 180 Gaming Console. But this time, the winds of adventure called me for real — to a destination as wild as my heart: the Endless Desert.

With me were my husband, Pio Perculo; my wife, Letizia; the insufferable but stylish Hazel and her wife Tati; and a peacefully high man known only as Green Peace. We boarded a plane bound for two legendary landmarks: the Singing Cactus and the Flaming Tumbleweed.

Beneath a sky scattered with cotton clouds, I stared out the window, heart pounding faster than the propellers. Beside me, Pio chattered nonstop about our daring descent into the unknown, only making me more nervous. Letizia, wearing her usual fuck-off smile, looked bored but vaguely amused. Hazel and Tati were too busy being delighted by each other to care. Green Peace was puffing on a joint and conversing with what I’m pretty sure was the air vent.

“Hey, amò,” Pio said, leaning over with exaggerated seriousness. “Give me your bra. I bet it’d work better as a parachute than these government-issued death napkins.”

“Amò, can you please be serious for five seconds? What if… what if I can’t pull the cord? What if something goes wrong?”

“Nonsense!” he grinned. “It’s just a leap into freedom. You’ll feel alive!”

His enthusiasm was infectious, but the thought of hurtling into a sea of sand made my stomach tie itself into complicated knots.

The plane began to descend. I caught a glimpse of the desert below — a golden ocean stretching endlessly in every direction. The door opened with a sudden whoosh, and hot air slammed into the cabin like a furnace. Before I could blink, Letizia grabbed my arm, Pio gave us both a shove, and suddenly we were airborne.

We landed — somehow — laughing like lunatics. After dusting ourselves off and swearing profusely, we began to wander the sun-drenched dunes. The heat was relentless, the sky a burning blue. The horizon shimmered and danced. Hours passed. Maybe centuries.

Then I saw it. I squinted. “Did you see that?” I gasped. “A grattacheccaro! Right over there!”

Excited, I pointed toward what looked like a street vendor. I could practically taste the shaved ice. The others squinted. Then chuckled.

Just another mirage.

As we kept walking, the air began to hum. A song floated on the wind — soft, persistent, vaguely nautical:
"Come all ye young fellows that follow the sea… to me, way hey, blow the man down…"

It felt both like a call and a warning.

Figures moved on the horizon. People? Ghosts? Hallucinations? Letizia shouted, “Excuse me! Do you know how to get to where you’re going?”

One man shrugged.

“This is ridiculous,” she muttered, launching into a full-scale rant until Hazel cut in:
“Leti’, no bad words. Take your pill and calm down. Everyone here’s as clueless as we are!”

That’s when he appeared — a tall man with dusty boots, sun-leathered skin, and a crooked grin.

“You folks need a guide?” he rasped. “Name’s Dusty Bottoms. But everyone calls me Dusty.”

He tipped his hat, revealing a mess of tangled hair, then added, “To get where you’re goin’, you’ll need a six-shooter. And a chant.”

Pio glanced at me. “Is he for real?”

We were too tired to care.

“Sounds silly,” Pio said, “but what do we have to lose?”
“Green?”

Green Peace shrugged. “Don’t look at me, bro. I had a friend named Dusty once… but he vanished when my housekeeper cleaned my room.”

Even Dusty laughed. Teeth like a haunted piano.

He led us to a craggy alcove of rocks where an old Peacemaker revolver rested beside a crumpled scrap of parchment. On it, a chant:

Come closer baby, tell your story untold,
Come celebrate with us the twenty years old
Oh, missin’ O, through every memory and tie,
Twenty years in a moment gone by.
Like an old record playin’, just echoing this song,
In the blue of the world, and there we still belong.

“It’s absurd,” Letizia muttered, picking up the revolver like it was a microphone she’d been born to hold. “Feel free to sing that shit. Don’t count on me.”

The rest of us sang — badly, loudly, beautifully.

And when the last note faded, Letizia grinned like the desert had finally earned her respect. “Watch out, world,” she growled. Then she raised the revolver and fired.

BLAM.

Something — or someone — screamed not far off.

None of us moved to check.

Because just then, the dunes parted to reveal something dazzling: an oasis. Shimmering water, rich palms, and in the center, a woman dancing around a well, her voice trailing through the air like silk. She was ethereal. Ageless.

“You have come at last,” she said, smiling like she already knew all our names.
“You sought the truth buried in twenty years of mirages.
Welcome to the Missing O.”

And just like that, it made sense.
The parachute fear. The heat. The hallucinations. The chant.
This was the lesson.

Always follow the song in your heart.
Never ask strangers for directions.
And above all —
Don’t forget to hold a revolver in the hand..