My friend was walking down the street the other day, and she came across a pink and black Mustang Ranch mouse pad. She washed it, and now it occupies a prominent place in her living room—brightening her hoarder soul every time she passes it.
That’s kind of how I came across Dead Neon, which is a collection of short stories about a degenerating Las Vegas.
Metal’s commerce with the lower realm has been extravagant, ridiculous, and covered in glory. The sleeper parched of his dreams, or purged of his nightmares, goes swiftly bonkers: without fantasy there is no reality. It might be argued—indeed, it will be argued, by me, right now—that heavy metal has kept us sane.
Sludgy as fuck, Punk Stoner Metal cooked up in the desert heat and siphoned into a dirty hypodermic needle and shot straight into your eyeballs gloom tunes to kill yourself by.
