Fast Times & High Lines
It was all whirlwind, heat & flash. Within eight hours we had killed the man that gets you down and hit the road. Nothing but some zombie truckers and road stop dives serviced by pikes not to be trusted. Our grave was littered with sleds of the dead. Two hours from death 'till dawn. Bloodshot eyes absorb the scene. Matt "Shoot To Kill" Johnson was locked & loaded with trigger at the ready. A van whirls into the lot, "Louie Louie" performed by the Kingsmen blasts from the stereo. As the dust settles it's inhabitants become apparent. Three of the meanest log-slingers these bleary eyes had ever focused on. Nick "Far Out" Jones commandeered the ride whilst Matte "Black" Chojnacki and Josh "The Boss" Simpson held shotgun. And now there were five.
So what was such a motley crew of salty vagabonds all doing in this obscure little ghost town so far from home? Turns out that word has spread. The waves had been playing up & these boys don't go for that. A little slow on making their quota for December, the waves had taken it upon themselves to skip town, fleeing north. The boys has got the tip & it was time to collect.
Dusty roads, ripe with corrugations, tested our nerves. Like some kind of God-carved projects, each track looked identical to the untrained eye but these boys had spent sometime here chasing undo-operative waves & they knew they were closing in. You could smell it, the salty scent of the waves sweating their impending doom.
A few weak stragglers were shredded that morning but we hadn't come all this way to deal nickels & dimes. Pay day was just around the next corner. Headed for a dead end and a date with the dagger a hearse flew up our inside, throwing up dust & shakas. Lindsay "Head" Turner & Jack "The" Lynch, on the hunt. And now there were seven.
We wailed into the lot, logs blazing, waves cornered. The gig was up, terrified bystanders raced for the safety of the dunes. They knew they had a blood bath on their hands & didn't want to get sprayed.
Far Out kicked off proceedings, smooth with the blade, he diced up wave after wave with the precision of a samurai. Rail to rail. SLASH! No wall was spared.
The Lynch threw the noose over the nose. RIP. Heals get hung.
Matte Black sauntered to the nose, toes on the trigger. BANG. He bursts out of his skin. No section was sacred.
The Boss, Head Turner & Shoot To Kill document the slaughter. They know that once the waves back home see this it will be a while before they go and get itchy feet again. Co-operation guaranteed.
The massacre lasts all afternoon, 'til the quiver is spent. The boys flick each other an approving nod as we each burn off in our own direction. It was all fast times & high lines. The best hits always are.
Pictures by Matt. Words by Stu McKerihan.