Episode 2: Welcome to Coconut City

Episode Two Welcome to Coconut City Dawn came slowly to: Coconut City Like the city itself wasn’t entirely sure it wanted to wake up yet. The eastern horizon glowed soft orange beyond the ocean while neon signs flickered weakly against the fading night. Some still buzzed. Some half-worked. Some had clearly been broken for years but refused to finally die. Highway 6 eventually narrowed into cracked coastal streets lined with: tourist traps, faded billboards, boardwalk motels, and salt-eaten storefronts. Whisky drove past them all silently. The: 1936 Spitfire coughed smoke as it rolled deeper into the city. Morning fog drifted low between buildings. A few exhausted workers shuffled through the streets. Street cleaners sprayed sand off sidewalks already destined to be covered again within hours. Somewhere in the distance, a seagull screamed like it had witnessed a murder. Normal Coconut City ambience. Whisky barely reacted. His eyes felt like sandpaper. He hadn’t properly slept in almost two days. Still— the deeper he drove into the city, the tighter the pressure in his chest became. Not fear. Not exactly. Recognition. The city hadn’t changed nearly as much as he hoped it had. Or maybe that was the problem. A massive faded billboard overlooking the boulevard flickered weakly overhead: WELCOME TO COCONUT CITY STAY TRASHY Half the lights were burnt out. Someone had spray painted: WE’RE TRYING beneath it. Whisky snorted quietly despite himself. “…Yeah,” he muttered. “That tracks.” The streets slowly became less tourist-friendly the farther east he drove. The buildings older. The pavement rougher. The neon dimmer. Eventually, he turned down a side street squeezed between: a boarded arcade and what appeared to be an abandoned tattoo parlor. At the very end sat: an old brick building with faded paint and rusted signage hanging crooked above the entrance. WHISKY BUSINESS One of the letters no longer lit properly. The sign buzzed softly in the morning haze. Whisky stared at it silently through the windshield. The parking lot looked worse than the building. Cracked pavement. Overgrown weeds. Beer bottles. Half-buried traffic cones. And an overflowing dumpster fighting for its life against several aggressive seagulls. Only one other vehicle sat parked nearby: An old band tour van. Faded paint. Dented sides. One missing hubcap. The words: RAGE AGAINST THE EGGS spray painted badly along the side. Whisky closed his eyes briefly. “…Of course.” The engine finally died with a tired metallic cough as he shut the Spitfire off. Silence settled around him. Ocean wind drifted through the lot carrying: salt, humidity, fried food grease, and distant boardwalk music. Home. Unfortunately. Whisky stepped out slowly, his joints popping immediately in protest. The morning air felt sticky already. He rolled one shoulder, then glanced toward the dumpster. Rizzo had said: “Under the trash bag. Same spot as always.” Whisky walked over carefully, eyeing the overflowing mountain of garbage with visible disappointment in humanity. A seagull hissed at him from atop the dumpster like a territorial demon. Whisky hissed back. The bird retreated. He grabbed an old black trash bag hanging halfway off the side. Underneath: exactly where she said it would be— a key. Still taped beneath the rusted metal edge. Whisky stared at it a moment before shaking his head. “Some things never change.” The front steps creaked beneath his boots as he approached the building. He slid the key into the lock. The mechanism resisted violently before finally turning with a loud metallic CLUNK. He grabbed the handle. Pulled once. Nothing. He sighed deeply. Then immediately kicked the door hard enough to shake the entire frame. The door burst inward with a loud crack, sending dust raining from above. The smell hit him first. Dust. Old carpet. Stale smoke. Humidity. Electrical heat. And abandoned building syndrome. Whisky stepped inside slowly. The studio sat frozen in time. Old posters peeling from walls. Cables everywhere. Recording equipment stacked carelessly. Broken furniture. Coffee cups fossilized in place. A couch that legally qualified as biohazardous. One flickering overhead light buzzed weakly in the back. Whisky stared silently for a long moment. Then exhaled through his beak. “…This place is a damn disaster.” A beat passed. “…Good.” The quiet somehow felt less lonely that way. His eyes slowly drifted toward the back of the studio. Toward the hallway leading deeper inside. Toward the safest room in the building. His expression darkened slightly. The box. The exhaustion instantly returned heavier than before. Whisky turned and headed back outside immediately. The morning sun had finally begun peeking over the distant shoreline, casting warm orange light across the parking lot.