The Feral Eclipse tour bus rumbled into the Neon Pines County Fairgrounds, raising a dust cloud so thick it nearly swallowed a face-painted corn dog vendor. The air reeked of hay, diesel, and powdered sugar, and the parking crew—a pair of teenagers in matching American flag overalls—were too busy TikToking to offer guidance.
As the bus eased to a stop, the crew could already see the day going sideways.
In the lot just ahead sat the less-than-glorious Vandal Saints van, duct tape on one door, speakers stacked haphazardly around it, and a hand-painted banner strung up with the phrase “Rock Hard, Die Loud.”
Suddenly, from the van’s side door — a goat burst out.
It was wearing a scarf, bedazzled horns, and someone’s lipstick. It galloped into the chaos like a four-legged fever dream, dragging a belt and half a glittery crop top behind it.
The band stared.
Cassie blinked. “Was that a…?”
Jonah: “Yup.”
Gabriel: “Why was it wearing blush?”
Seconds later, Bret — Vandal Saints’ infamous lead singer — exploded out of the van, shirtless, mascara running, pants on backwards, and a giant lipstick smear on one cheek. He was chasing after the goat in a full meltdown.
“PRINCESS NUGGET! GET BACK HERE!”
Then he looked up — and saw the Feral Eclipse bus.
And everything stopped.
Bret dropped to his knees in the gravel, arms raised like he was in a Shakespearean tragedy.
“NOOO! NOT AGAIN! WHY? WHY IS IT ALWAYS YOU?”
The pack exchanged looks. Cassie raised a brow. Thane snorted. Diesel just shook his head like he’d seen this entire bit play out too many times.
Maya clapped her hands and strode forward, voice dripping with amused sarcasm:
“Hey Bret, real quick — what was up with that goat? Messy scarf, lipstick, horns… You trying to recreate one of those Tijuana donkey shows… or did you just lose a very bizarre poker bet?”
Bret’s jaw snapped shut. His mascara-streaked face flushed darker than his lipstick. The goat bleated in perfect timing from afar, starting back toward the van.
“Shut up!” Bret screamed.
“I didn’t — It’s none of your business!”
He glared around, chest heaving… then turned on his heel and stomped back to the van.
The goat followed, of course.
As Bret stormed his way inside, the goat trotted in after him like it owned the place. The Saints’ roadie just groaned and closed the door with a sigh.
Emily snapped a photo of the van — goat’s snout pressed to the back window — as fuel for tomorrow’s tour update.