LAS VEGAS SUNDAY RUN - Heavy Stomp • Gritty Guitars • Rugged Country

We rolled out of Vegas like shadows on the blacktop, Sun burning high, but our engines stayed cold. Toxic on my left, me steady in my lane, Two Sunday outlaws, ready to bite the road. Primm hit us hard with that ammonia load, Ghost truck slammed my side, but we never slowed. No talking, just diesel growling low, Seattle in the distance, night swallowing the glow. Grand Coulee sunrise, sky bleeding orange fire, Some lone wolf followed us, drawn to the wire. We dropped our freight in silence, dust in the air, Two steel silhouettes, fading into the glare. Then we grabbed the heavy stuff, forty tons of rage, Bulldozers chained tight, climbing out of that cage. The hill tried to break us, but we climbed like stone, Two metal giants pushing through on our own. Sandpoint truckstop — thirteen rigs standing still, We rolled past slow, nobody dared to kill The quiet. One headlight flash, my Halloween horn, Two outlaw rigs saluted as we carried on. Red lights in the city, engine brake humming low, Reading every cycle, letting the rhythm flow. Two lanes, two shadows, one heartbeat in time, Crossing every light clean, perfect on the line. Havre at dawn, some empty rig trailing behind, He hit the horn once — a simple outlaw sign. We dropped our load in silence, sun cutting the haze, Las Vegas Sunday Run… carved into the highway.