So he enters the bar with that obvious thirst for whiskey all over his face. Drinks it like it’s homemade iced tea then picks a random fight. Nasty dialogue, cinematic broken chairs, manly punches yet to become scars. Next thing we know, he’s stuck in a lazy afternoon, contemplating the mesmerizing dust and the paint on a stolen car. She said “I wanna go faster”, he said “you’d better find a way”. So she found the one car in the supermarket’s parking lot inviting enough to commit felony. Almost forgot that unbearably hot summer night when all four of them took a trip, got lost in the dessert of their own minds and came back with lyrics for about ten good love songs. Freckled shoulders, the lips kissing them and the moment she said “never”. The darkest of nights. Country music buzzing from an old radio. Rage and nostalgia melting together in sepia colors on a goodbye postcard.
Among all fandom ecstasy and lust-fueled songs, the dream of proudly fucking things up like an American reigned supreme. And so did the Kings.
The stage was on fire and they had honey on their tongues.
Writer’s note: I shall quit my job, leave my home and spend the rest of my life filling Caleb’s glass of beer on tour.
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