Editor's Note: Prolific PostSurf commenter Blashphemy Rottmouth has started his own show over at
Single Fins and Safety Pins?
“Now, why in our precious Laird’s name, would a tedious song from a shoddy ‘THE STROKES’ cover band be ringing in my ears at this ungodly hour?”
This single thought permeated my exhausted mind. A shiver navigated the course my spine as I pulled the badger-skin trench coat closer to my moistening neck. I was cold. I was too cold to speak coherently without risking a chipped tooth from my chattering jaw. So cold, my joints refused to move without protesting vehemently. Rain continued its steady barrage on the asphalt all around. I warily eyed a feral beagle as it sifted through some curbside garbage across the street from the Circle K parking lot beneath my boot shod feet. Somewhere behind the convenience store, came the sound of a metal lid, slamming shut on a dumpster full of discarded Jack Daniels and Coors Lite boxes.
I glanced about nervously, looking for my wheels. “An ’84 Japanese import shouldn’t be hard to spot,” I surmised. But the jalopy was nowhere to be found through the sheets of rain on this dimly lit night.
Then a maddening thought occurred to me. “Where was I?” And more importantly, “how did I get here? Was the full flavored Newport dangling from my mouth lit by a stranger’s hand, or was it of my own volition?” I reached into my pocket and pulled out a wadded up piece of Kleenex with two words scrawled above a barely legible phone number. The word’s read: Alex Knost. “Hmmm, this is bizarre,” I contemplated quietly...