Get us the fuck out of Kingman. The repair shop will have our car ready by Wednesday, but that’s so far away. 48 hours in Kingman is like 48 years anywhere else.
Today we were super hungover. Warren especially. At breakfast he talked about maybe going for a barf in the toilets, but he came good after he ate his eggs. We checked out all the thrift stores and antiques stores; I got a cool black shirt and a pack of old Vegas playing cards. We went back to the hotel and played Bullshit and drank beers by the pool.
We’re gagging for female company. Not in a sexual way, just in a general. We need an estrogen fix, and I could really use a hug, to be honest. We walked past an old-timer on a bench today and he must’ve heard our conversation because he called out, ‘you boys ain’t from around here, is ya. There ain’t no fuckin’ girls in this town!’ That really, really happened. We saw a girl sitting in the park who was really beautiful, but of course she was having an argument with her imaginary friend. The most attractive girl in Kingman is bat-shit crazy.
So we swam, drank beers, and played cards all afternoon. Then at about 8pm we walked back to our new local bar, The Sportsman, and reloaded the jukebox with Nick Cave and reloaded ourselves with whiskey. Thank God for the Sportsman and its jukebox and pool tables. That’s what’s keeping us alive at this point. Dave the bartender–who is the most normal person we’ve met here–told us that ten minutes after we left the night before, three mysterious gang dudes showed up. They had tattoos on their faces and they started bullying some guy who was there with a group of girls. Dave went over, and when he realized what was going down he told the tough guys they had to leave, and that was when one of them lifted his shirt to reveal that he was strapped. ‘Three days out of the pen, motherfucker!’ he said, brandishing his pistol. Drunken gang dudes with guns are roaming the night at the same time as us. Great. According to Dave, everyone in town is packing–it’s just normal Kingman conduct. Get me out of here.
After hearing that story we decided it was imperative that we settle our nerves immediately, and we did. I’ve really taken a shine to Jack Daniels. I don’t know who I am anymore. The old bird from the night before, Susan, turned up with her sister, who is also an old bird, and who kept coming over and pretending to do karate on us. ‘Hai–yah!’ It was a shameful display and one of the most primitive flirting strategies I have ever seen.
Things are getting dark. We discussed it on the way to Carl’s Jnr at 2am (Carl’s Jnr is a roadside burger chain). There’s a creeping nightmare feeling starting to set in, a sense of impending tragedy that can’t be ignored, and last night we all agreed that it was best not to cower from it. We decided that the following day, Tuesday, would be ‘Dark Tuesday.’ And since it was technically already Tuesday in that Carl’s Jnr, Joe began preparing for Dark Tuesday by playing INXS really loud on his phone and painting his face with blue pool table chalk. Doesn’t get much darker than that.
I’m actually writing this at 10:30am on Dark Tuesday. It’s sunny, the birds are singing, and you can hear the soft warble of children frolicking in the pool, but it’s Dark Tuesday, so I’m going into the bathroom now to do some self-harm and listen to Nine Inch Nails. Warren is lying in bed making up a song about murder.
That transmission is going in the car tomorrow. If it doesn’t, we’ll be celebrating Dark Wednesday too.
Next up: all the gory details of Dark Tuesday.