Josie and the Pussycats are on a tear of a tour. A cross-desert, cross-country, country music Jamboree! Their powder pink Volkswagen van huffs its way through Scenic Monument Valley. Outside the van, cacti wave their tentacled arms. Tumbleweeds roll like they mean business. The sun is a clementine orange. The ghost of John Wayne rides by, cordially tipping his hat. Josie and her kittens are starting to tweak – it’s those tabs of LSD they took back in Tucson to counteract their hangovers. The girls sing - Burt Bacharach ditties, row row your boat, 99 bottles of beer on the wall. Beer bottles clatter to the back of the van. The Pussycats howl, the Pussycats croon, the van hisses. Josie is thinking about last year’s Grand Ol’ Opry. She was kicked out. She’d taken her dress off on stage. Sequins akimbo. Earnest Tubb convulsing with rage, his sunburned scalp like raw meat. Too hot. It was just too damn hot. Its too hot now. Out of nowhere a roadside bar appears. This is a “mirage cliché” thinks Josie. The Pussycats tumble into the bar, their aqua net beehives standing at attention, their bellies sloshing with warm beer and stale nacho chips. Sitting at the bar is Hunter S. Thompson. Beside Hunter is a dwarf and a boy with seal flippers for hands. This is like a joke, thinks Josie a dwarf, a chicken and a vampire walk into a bar. Hunter comes over to Josie. She tries on his cowboy hat. It smells like Sugar Crisp Cereal. . Josie’s kittens begin to howl, they ululate. Outside a coyote tears at a rabbit. The wind howls. Hunter raises a rifle to his temple and fires. Josie grabs his hat, leaves. Too hot…
