Our heroes here are dirt. Defenestrated from monumental buildings for being obscene. Badly in need of showers and clean clothes. New clothes, but only second-hand. Body odor is the cologne of pride: a dog that marks its territory in alleyway cardboard clutter. Piss puddles on the steps of the legislature, Example #1 having remembered where he was. Our heroes run the gamut of drop-outs and drop-outs and drop-outs – college, workforce, family; the face of the Earth. The planet is the hero-transient’s domain. Few people alive today can hop a garbage rail 500 miles. Artistry is an endangered species. Moles burrow blindly, and our heroes can find a 5-star meal in the dumpster behind Roy Rogers’. Arable land is valuable, and the square mileage of humanity has steadily declined since the invention of commuter drives. The country-side is a burning pit of Christian feces, and the cities will churn you into profit for the Liberal elites. Our heroes haven’t seen a suburban development since the day Home burned down. Ma and Pa may or may not still be alive. The buildings have been mapped, the streets have been lined, and the parks are cramped with stroller brats, breeding fleas that leap the Earth to spread the disease of Consumer IQ. There are few places left to go. Urban camping is a reckless respite. The seaside has been cubicle’d, and the frontier is a financial expedition led by JP Morgan, partly-funded by an Abrahams tank and the Treasury Department. But again the IQ fleas – they’ve bred by leaps and bounds, ‘cross the valleys and the mountainsides. And our heroes at night, ever searching for something sturdy, are found puking their suboxone out in a parking lot behind a 4th Street basement bar.
[Mick Hugh is the creator of Mick’s Neon Fog. And an all-around bad ass.]