Later that night, the bus was parked at a scenic rest stop overlooking a pine valley. Everyone was still buzzing from Diesel’s taco truck tale, and somehow, somewhere between Gabriel’s fifth espresso and Jonah’s sixth soda, the idea was born.

“We have to make that a song,” Jonah declared, sitting cross-legged on the floor with a snare practice pad. “Like… a full-on, crunchy riff, dramatic vocals—this is the kind of story that demands distortion.”

Rico chuckled from his bunk, flipping his pick between his fingers. “I’m in, but I swear if you make me sing about salsa in a minor key again…”

“I’ll write it!” Cassie said, grabbing a notepad. “Title’s already gold. Burn the Brakes, Save the Salsa. How’s this for the first verse?”

We were ghosts on the road with nowhere to be,
A metal band crashing through destiny,
Stopped for tacos, fate took the wheel,
Now Jorge’s gone ninja, and this is real.

Thane was behind the console station with a smirk, nodding along. “You know what? It slaps.”

Gabriel jumped up, air-bassing dramatically, tail flicking wildly. “I’m putting in a slap solo! Jorge deserves slap!”

Mark didn’t even look up from the lighting console where he was programming mood settings for the studio. “I want a strobe light every time someone says ‘hot sauce.’”

Cassie scribbled furiously. “Okay, chorus, chorus… how about—”

Burn the brakes!
Don’t stop the flame!
Hot sauce flyin’ like a runaway train!
Jorge jumps and the stand goes down—
But the salsa lives on in this town!

Gabriel howled in laughter. “YES! YES!! This is art!”

Diesel, sitting quietly in the front lounge, cracked the barest grin. “You kids are ridiculous.”

Jonah tapped his sticks together. “Bridge time. We need a breakdown where Rico just wails on a guitar solo while someone yells about spicy peppers.”

Rico raised a brow. “I mean… I could channel some serious chipotle fury.”

Gabriel nodded gravely. “Let the spirit of Jorge possess your fretboard.”

Thane, laughing so hard he nearly dropped his cup, reached over to the soundboard and hit RECORD. “Alright. Let’s do a scratch take. If this ends up on the next album, I’m blaming the driver.”

Cassie grinned. “We’ll call it The Diesel Sessions.”

Diesel sipped his coffee. “Just don’t spell my name wrong on the credits.”