Prologue


I expected to get a box of records. I did not expect to also get an Ibanez Artcore. Guess we'll have to turn that into a gigantic project, huh?

... but what do i call this thing? Maybe 

Yay! I found the subset of friends who are in my head  

Or maybe 

Drawn to the suffering like mosquitoes to a bug zapper 

Maybe just 

Of Course, That's What's in the Box 

Yep, title accomplished. Good job, Bottle. Now on with the onset. 


Prologue 

A sound reverberated through the cosmos. It was not a simple sound, and if you tried to compare the various available descriptions of said sound you might find it sounded any which way but coherent. 

Skip woke from his face-on-keyboard nap with the mental image of tires squealing on asphalt. A lot had happened since his office pod crash landed on this deserted beach, but all of it blissfully uninteresting. The part before that was enough excitement for 3 lifetimes. Still, even after hurdling through untold lightyears of space, tumbling spastically down a mountainside (which he could clearly see happening because the door to his office caught fire and disappeared as soon as he hit the planet's atmosphere), not even so much as a piece of paper riffled. Bottle was right, only the outer shell moved. Minion engineering at its finest. "Not sure i miss him yet," he pondered out loud, "but i'm sure i will eventually." 

Sandra had been dozing atop her nameless horse as they ambled across the desert when she heard more of a "plop-fiiiiizzzzz" kind of heartburn relief ritual. "Shut up, Bottle," she murmured in her half-doze. Slowly consciousness filtered back in and she fully awoke to find an interesting thought in her mind. Needless to say, she smirked before veering left at a comfortable trot. 

Bridbrad and Gladys both paused mid-rock in their chairs. "Welp," mumbled Bridbrad. "Indeed," came the reply, and they relaxedly resumed their rocking. 

Compy was the closest of the crew, he had been visiting Garbage Lady when the earth heaved and the boulders piled neatly in front of the tunnel entrance as boulders are wont to do. Thus, he heard a much more accurate aural representation and said out loud "Hey Lady! Sounds like Bottle got hold of a box of mostly old Country records." "Only mostly," the Lady replied after a moment's hesitation. "Good ears," said Compy. "Still, glad we're barricaded in here." 

Oh me, oh my, a poke in the eye, what did i expect? I did a week's worth of Industrial, and that karmic ledger isn't going to balance itself. It is time, time to do the unthinkable. Imma gonna listen to a fair bit of old-time guit-pickin'. Country before it was an official genre. Yee haw? I took the liberty of looking through this small but mighty collection, and there's a couple islands of respite in the steam. We'll just shuffle this no doubt miserably sticky lady into the middle somewhere, and see what we hear at the appopriate rum & coking hour. It might even turn out to be fun. Toodles.

Part 1

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