The bus wheezed to a stop on the edge of a town that didn’t seem to exist on any map I’d ever seen. The paint was peeling off every wall, and the street signs looked like they’d been stolen from a historical reenactment village. In fact, everything here had a worn-out, mock-serious look to it, like someone had tried to give a modern-day suburban nightmare the grit of a 19th-century boomtown.

I stepped off the bus, the only passenger. The driver raised an eyebrow at me as I climbed down. “Good luck with these types,” he muttered, and with that, the doors creaked shut, and the bus sputtered off, leaving a faint cloud of exhaust that hung over the street.

“Patriots in cargo shorts,” I muttered as I walked toward what looked like the town square. And sure enough, there they were: a bunch of graying men and women in camo-print cargo shorts, fanny packs, and flag-patterned hats, parading in formation around a war memorial no one seemed able to remember the name of. One of them gave me a stiff, almost saluting nod, squinting as if to say, “You better be grateful for whatever sacrifice I made.”

Further down, a group huddled under a gazebo, muttering about inflation and scrolling through their phones like sacred texts. These were the Spreadsheet Spartans, glaring at cell signal bars as if checking them off a list of tactical maneuvers. Every few seconds, one would let out a sigh so self-important, you’d think they’d just declared an economic state of emergency.

“Nice place,” I said, passing by.

One of them looked up, leveling me with a solemn expression. “If you knew what I could do with a budget calculator…” he trailed off ominously, letting the threat hang in the air.

A little unnerved, I made my way to the local cafe. The sign outside read: Liberty Latte in calligraphy that desperately wanted to look hand-painted but was probably printed from a laser jet. I pushed the door open, and immediately I was met with a blast of coffee so weak it could barely pass as bean water.

Inside, the tables were crowded with Liberty Latte Warriors. Each wore an expression of righteous contentment, hands wrapped around eco-friendly cups as they discussed the “war on small businesses” that hadn’t even reached this place. One of them shot me a look of pure disdain when I ordered a plain black coffee. “You drink that?” she sneered. “I stick to oat milk, because, you know, the cows.”

Down a little side street, a man in a black turtleneck with a hand-rolled cigarette hanging from his lips leaned against a wall. “We’ve lost all nuance,” he whispered to no one in particular. The Turtleneck Tyrants seemed to live in this perpetual fog of discontent, wandering the town as if they were the last true thinkers left in the world. He nodded to me as I passed, a grim acknowledgment that I, too, was trapped in this intellectual wasteland.

Before I knew it, the sun had started to set, casting long shadows over the cobblestone square. I felt like I’d been walking through a fever dream of people convinced they were holding together the fragile threads of society. Everywhere I turned, there were Armchair Aristotles, pontificating about human nature, whiskey glass in hand, or Virtue Vault-Tenders, pulling me aside to explain the importance of obscure values they’d unearthed from dead philosophers’ notebooks.

Finally, I slumped onto a bench near the fountain. I tried to wrap my head around where I’d landed: a bizarre simulation of a town where everyone was certain they held the answers. Just as I thought I might drift off, a Backyard Benevolent Dictator approached, hands on his hips, button-down tucked crisply into his khaki shorts. The name “Sheriff” was stenciled on a makeshift badge that hung from his neck, suspended by what looked suspiciously like a shoelace. “Sheriff Marston,” he introduced himself, thrusting out his hand. His grip was firm, as if he’d practiced it in the mirror.

“New in town?” he asked, with a voice that brooked no argument.

“Just passing through,” I replied, trying not to laugh.

“Well, stay long enough, and you’ll learn something. We all have something to teach around here, after all,” he said with a nod, turning on his heel.

Before I could protest, he was already marching me toward the town square, gesturing around like he was the mayor. “Let me show you what makes our town special. A sanctuary of principles and practical wisdom, you know?”

“Let’s start with the Freedom Fitness Fanatics,” he said, steering me into the local park, where several people in red, white, and blue spandex were doing push-ups on the grass. “They believe a patriotic citizen should bench their body weight in the name of liberty,” he whispered. “Some folks work out to feel good; these folks do it for freedom.”

One of them spotted me and called out, “Hey, you ever deadlift for democracy?” His question hung in the air as he flexed his bicep, clearly awaiting some form of affirmation.

“Not… not often,” I replied, hoping that was sufficient.

Marston patted my shoulder. “Don’t worry, not everyone’s cut out for freedom reps.” With that, he ushered me down the street toward a small café, where a group sat huddled around a laptop, wearing suits and intense expressions.

“These here are the Crypto Crusaders,” he said in a low voice, watching them with a certain awe. “They’re always talking about ‘decentralizing the system’ or somethin’. Personally, I don’t understand it, but they’ll swear Bitcoin’s the only way to save America.”

One Crusader looked up, spotting us. “We’re just one ICO away from total freedom!” he shouted, eyes gleaming with a fervor I usually associated with cult leaders or late-night TV salesmen.

Before I could respond, Sheriff Marston led me away and toward an alley. A faint smell of lavender hung in the air, and a small group sat cross-legged on yoga mats, essential oils arranged like holy relics.

“These are the Self-Care Stoics,” Marston whispered. “They say they’re all about resilience, but watch ‘em freak out if their meditation app goes down.”

One of them nodded at us, rubbing a dab of eucalyptus oil into his temples. “Embrace discomfort,” he intoned, adjusting his expensive mat. “Life’s a journey, after all.”

Marston rolled his eyes, and we moved on, heading toward a cluster of people standing by an old payphone with retro-style outfits. “Now these here are the Vintage Vanguards,” he explained. “They act like the world stopped turning in the ‘50s. They’ll tell you the only time America was truly great was when people said things like ‘golly’ and ‘gee whiz.’”

One woman with a beehive hairdo was struggling to dial a number on the payphone. “Back when phones were simple!” she said, glaring at her smartphone like it had personally offended her.

I stifled a laugh as Marston nudged me onward. “Time to meet the Free Market Minstrels,” he announced as we approached a group tuning their guitars on a small stage in the town square. One of them adjusted his fedora and began strumming a folksy ballad dedicated to “the entrepreneurial spirit.”

“They think music should celebrate enterprise,” Marston whispered. “Honestly, it’s not half bad, but after three songs about ‘fiscal freedom,’ you start missing silence.”

We continued down Main Street, and I noticed a group of people with clipboards and binders, meticulously arranging pamphlets in neat rows. “These are the Bureaucracy Buffs,” he said. “They believe in the power of paperwork. They’re even petitioning for a town ‘Documentation Day.’”

One Buff shot us a look of approval. “Order is essential to a functioning society,” he declared, tapping his clipboard like a gavel.

Marston smirked as we moved on, rounding the corner to a cluster of tents with immaculate interior decor. “Ah, now here’s a favorite: the Manifest Destiny Minimalists. They’re committed to having as little as possible, just so long as their minimalism looks good on Instagram.”

A woman in the group held up her smartphone, framing a photo of her tent, which contained exactly one plant, one candle, and one carefully curated journal. She smiled, satisfied with her sparse but elegant setup.

Sheriff Marston led me away before they could engage us in a lecture on “mindful possessions” and brought us to a more rugged area at the town’s edge. Here, a group wearing cargo pants and sun hats were leaning over a picnic spread, discussing “nature’s wisdom.”

“These are the Neo-Nobleman Naturalists,” Marston whispered. “They’re convinced they’re the last real protectors of Mother Earth — in style, of course.”

One of them raised a glass of kombucha in a toast. “To nature,” he said solemnly. “Untouched and pure — just like us.”

I stifled a snort, and Sheriff Marston chuckled as he led me toward the library, where a small crowd had gathered. “Now you’re gonna love this. These are the Ordained Influencers of Insight. They can’t get through a sentence without asking, ‘Does that resonate?’ They’re self-proclaimed experts on purpose and alignment.”

One woman spotted us, her eyes wide with an almost holy intensity. “Alignment is everything,” she said softly. “We’re all here on this journey, don’t you think?”

Before I could answer, Marston nudged me forward to a group grilling hamburgers on what looked like a space-age BBQ setup. “Now these are the Techno-Anarchist Grillers. They say they’re all about anti-establishment values — but they won’t cook their burgers on anything but the latest gadget.”

One of them flipped a burger with a spatula that looked suspiciously Bluetooth-enabled. “Collapse society?” he mused. “Maybe. But not before the meat’s medium-rare.”

Marston sighed as he led me on, next stopping at the town library steps, where a group sat in tailored suits, each with a laptop. “These are the Investment Visionaries. They’re convinced they’re on the verge of the next big financial boom — or bust. Either way, they’re winning.”

One of them looked up, exuding self-importance. “Generational wealth is my birthright,” he announced to no one in particular, his words wafting over the square like gospel.

By now, my head was spinning, but Sheriff Marston seemed energized. “Two more,” he promised, steering me toward a street corner where a group in robes performed strange, sweeping arm movements.

“These here are the Constitutional Choreographers. They’ve interpreted the Bill of Rights into dance routines,” he explained. “They think patriotism should be expressed through interpretive movement.”

One of them caught my eye and gave a deep, solemn bow. “Every step represents freedom,” he intoned before launching into a clumsy series of jumps.

Finally, we reached a small crowd gathered around a man pacing with a furrowed brow. “The Irony Elders,” Marston whispered with a smirk. “They only speak in sarcasm. ‘Authenticity,’ they call it.”

One Elder spotted me and muttered, “Oh, sure, just waltz right into town, like authenticity is so passé,” and rolled his eyes.

Marston grinned. “Quite a town, huh? We’re like a tapestry of individuality.” He gave a proud nod, surveying his quirky kingdom.

And as I looked around at the Freedom Fitness Fanatics, the Crypto Crusaders, the Manifest Destiny Minimalists, and every other oddball Sheriff Marston had introduced me to, I realized he was right. This place wasn’t like anywhere I’d ever seen — and that was, somehow, exactly the point.