Oily Hole mess: The Rusty Mesa night is loud and mean, axle grease slick where the backlot’s green. There blow off valve and servo sphincter going crazy now every cyborg’s got petroleum on their face They can’t see. Exit Gate is loud upon the stage, guitars howling, stirring up the rage. Chef Daganaki flips the Krahlberger high, laughing as the toxic grease starts to fly. “Swallow it whole, no chewing allowed!” he bellows out to the rowdy crowd. The Rusty Black Snake slips through the hole, dark and coiled with a life of its own. Robots and goofballs line up to try, to gulp those black dogs without a bite. They slather them slick in axle grease too, so they slide right down that chrome throat through. All for the prize of a free one more, while Shaz Geyser’s patience is running poor. The marshal’s eyes are locked on the scene, hoping he won’t have to make it clean. And over it all a red vapor swirls, a vortex of dust and toxic swirls. It spins like a portal above the fight, casting crimson glow on the whole wild night. The air smells of gas and burnt out spark, but it makes for one killer light show in the dark. Out back where the noise is a little less mean, PP-101 and Starlight Kink make their scene. They’re sock bopping, jaw to jaw, they spar, throwing sparks like fireworks from afar. No words exchanged, just bolts and grin, two chrome hearts dancing in the din. This is the silliest western you’ve seen, spaghetti chaos in axle grease sheen. From the cookout to the red vapor’s glow, the Oily Hole puts on the best show.
