A crustpunk traveler, on the end of his rope, stumbles into the paranormal.
The woods were shrubby and shitty and full of ticks. It was the kind of embarrassing midwest excuse for a forest that is both the result of clearcutting and that makes me think a second clearcut would, just in this one case, be an improvement. The sun was on the back of my neck and I’d had my thumb outstretched for hours. The muscles in my face hurt from smiling at every single motherfucker who wouldn’t pick me up.