This Wicked Way Comes Jill Sherman and Matthew Sochocki

Let’s ride on through the desert on a horse with two names, all my succulent sandworms of radioland. There’s always some new dysentery to die of out on the wasteland trail. It could be the fire raging in the passions of your heart, or the mushrooms growing out from behind your eyes. You should probably get a doctor to look at that. You know? Wouldn’t want a 'wrecked’em, damn near killed’em’ scenario.

Welcome to the new normal, followers, failures and philanderers (who I love just the way you are). Horses in the pool, unspoken alienation and allegiance, patricide, matricide, and everything in between. It sure is a lot to keep track of, yeah? It’s time to blow this popsicle stand, so bring Maris a machine gun, and turn Warble loose, because they’re all out of bubblegum, and eat pieces of crap like these for breakfast!

Some say being surrounded simplifies things, and then others say it's A-Ok to load down their dog with grenades like an adorable munitions caddie. Unfortunately, like most plans hatched under the desert sun, things for that pooch could go from fine to real bad, real fast. But hell so could anything! That’s life amirite!

It’s the first law of the wasteland, always keep one in the chamber for the ferryman. Things have a tendency to go Murphy out here, and he’s an expensive date to please. Sit tight, and sqwunch your toes in the carpet, because things are gonna get loud and proud in all the worst ways; like three hour spoken word interpretive dance kinda ways. Ya feel me?

I spy with my sandy eye an outpost in the distance that proves to have some internal troubles of its own. Maris and Warble get down to the nitty gritty, and try and fulfill some unreasonable requests of some unlikable patriarchs. Ride or die into a spot of tea, and suffer a scumbag landlord because good things come to those who wait. Unfortunately.

Our fearless warrior queens take time to reconnoiter their rendezvous. Sometimes you get the dog made of people, and sometimes you get your clam in a pickle. Lay an egg while you've still got the time, because Mr. Dead is closing in, and the world can only be your oyster if you reach out, and take it from the maelstrom.