the peculair adventures of the devil whores

early sunsets over monroeville

the sky is every shade of orange.
lithium looks up at the slowly drifting clouds, lazily traveling overhead. from the roof of the rusty green truck with the one remaining intact tire and the stolen engine he has a good view over the desert skies. in his hands, he's clutching his radio, fiddling methodically with the dials. is he really about to do this?

the sky has reached every shade of purple and even some dark cobalt blue when he finally dials into the waves. he tries to keep his voice from shaking as he puts on a fake smile for nothing but the junkyard to see and speaks into the radio, loud and clear: "salutations tumbleweeds, 'joy in distress here!" god, this is pathetic.
"it's going all kinds of costa rica out here, i wasn't prepared!" yeah, mix in some slang you fucking loser. see if they'll think you belong out here.
"if i don't find some motorbabies to ride with, i think i'll only be ghosting." now that makes him sound like a wimp. fuck, he should've thought this out beforehand.
"I'm an artist, not a fighter!" the chicks love themselves an artist, what can he say?
"if anyone would be ready to join my gang of anarchists, I would greatly appreciate it. I-" he pauses. don't get sappy now, motherfucker. he clears his throat.
"I need some new places to tag anyways. Message me if you wanna come along and we'll see each other in the mosh pit!" trying to make this sound casual, huh?

lithium signs off by leaving his name and frequenzy, then shuts down the radio. he let's out a shakey breath and pats himself on the chest with his flat hand, smiling to himself. lithium takes a celebratory gulp from his beer bottle, only to scrunch his nose in disgust.
it's lukewarm.
fuck the desert, man.