The fundamental questions are these: Is a cretin a cretin by choice? Are assholes responsible for their assholery? If some waste of flesh pulverizes his frontal lobe behind the wheel of a Honda Civic with purple underlighting, should we collectively pay to feed him through a tube for the rest of his days?

I’ll never run short of projects. I can’t get enough of the comment threads on news sites. How stupid do you have to be to use your own name?

Work boots. Unremarkable shoes. Warm clothing (two outfits). Toque. Gloves. Water. Food. Wallet. Binoculars. Compass. Hunting knife (a compromise, just in case). Rope. Hunting rifle. Ammunition (two boxes, forty rounds). Case. Guitar. Blanket. Watch. Mini first aid kit (you never know). Maps. Lighter. Bike. Smile.

There’s morning frost on the ground, shining like crystal under the first rays of the sun. This show won’t last. The frozen dew will evaporate soon. Already I can’t see the steam on my breath. I’ve taken off my hoodie. I set off before dawn, my favourite time to travel. It’s Saturday. Since I left town, I’ve seen only two cars. They were full of young people on their way home to bed.

Thanks to the unseasonably warm weather, leaves still cling to their branches. A gorgeous landscape, bathed in lambent autumn light; a forest daubed in yellow, orange, and red. Farmers’ fields stretch on either side of the secondary road I’ve chosen. The harvest is over, and in a few weeks the snow will come. Cold already grips the brown earth. The crunching of my bike tires on the gravel is the only sound I hear. The birds that live in these parts have already left for the winter.

No, not quite: when I get to the top of a little hill, I see thousands of white points in the middle of a field. White geese slowly waking up, warmed by the sun’s rays. They’ll breakfast on the crumbs of the harvest then take off in a deafening beating of wings. I stop to watch them. Nature has a way of setting the perfect scene.

I hide my bike behind a wild rose bush in full bloom, fifty metres from a little dirt path between two fields. It’s not even 8:00 a.m. and the sun’s already pounding down. I walk with my guitar case and my backpack until I reach the spot where the road ends and the marshland begins.

I count my steps and retrace the labyrinthine path to an observation point on the side of the road that the drag racers use. I open the case and pull out the gun, which is wrapped in a big plastic bag. I stash the weapon and the ammunition. My load lightened, I travel back along the same path and pick up my bike. I have all day to visit the area and make friends.