Your radio screeches to life suddenly one night, Black Dragon Fighting Society blasts through the desert. You scramble to shut it off when you remember you took the batteries out months ago.
You and your gang find an old killjoy mask. A friend warns you not to put it on but you do. Who are you? Where are you?
“Danger: Zone 9”. There are only seven zones. You just left Zone 3.
There’s an area near Zone 5 that no Draculoid will go to. The last patrol that did threw their masks off and disappeared into the desert with tears in their eyes.
A raygun stolen from a dead killjoy will always misfire. You’ve never missed a shot regardless.
Every month the Shrine spits out a letter with your name on it saying “you aim too low”, “be sure to get rest”, and “we love you”. You don’t know who they’re from.
If you find a trail of crow feathers, don’t follow it. You’ll see someone with long black hair and a hollow face. She’ll ask to see your mask. Do not give her your mask.
If you lie on the borders between the last Zone and No Mans Land you’ll see stars that shouldn’t exist. Wish on one and it’ll go out.
If you tap “_ _ _ _ _/… _ _ /. . _ _ _/. . _ _ _” on the Mailbox, sometimes you might hear it tap “. . -… -… ..-. … …. .- .-. .–. –. … …. .- .-. .–. ..-. … …. .- .-. .–.” back.
2019 is all about grubcore. we’re talking freshly tilled soils. rotting tree bark. we’re talking forest floor duff. 2019 we’re writhing in the ground and eating dirt
