Three Werewolves: Tour Blog

The sun was just beginning to burn off the fog from last night’s carnival-induced chaos as the tour van rolled to a cautious stop outside a quaint brick building nestled between a Bible supply store and a shuttered quilt museum. A sign above the door read in neat, hand-painted lettering:

“103.7 The Beacon – Northwest Arkansas’ Home for Faith and Fellowship!”

A small plastic marquee beneath it read:
“Today’s Guest: Feral Eclipse”

Thane blinked. “Did we… did we agree to this?”

Gabriel, already halfway out of the van, grinned. “Technically? I said we’d do a radio spot. I didn’t know it was this spot.”

Cassie glanced up at the sign and made a face. “I’m not even wearing sleeves. We’re all going to hell.”

“Too late,” Maya muttered, checking her eyeliner in the side mirror. “We burned that bridge in Tulsa.”

---

Inside the Station: 10:13 AM

The interior smelled like peppermint tea and slightly scorched toast. A sweet older woman in a knit sweater with embroidered lambs offered everyone homemade banana bread while ushering them into a carpeted recording studio that looked like it hadn’t seen a computer since the Y2K panic.

The DJ—Pastor Jim, as stitched across his denim shirt—beamed from behind the mic.

“Well now, this is a real treat! Feral Eclipse, y’all! Such a unique name. We’re so excited to have you here sharing your music and ministry.”

Thane blinked. “Ministry?”

Gabriel elbowed him. “We’re… uh… a ministry of sound. Healing… through… music?”

Cassie made a high-pitched noise that might’ve been a suppressed snort or the last gasp of her sanity.

Pastor Jim nodded earnestly. “That’s beautiful. So tell us, what inspires your songs?”

Jonah, deadpan: “Rage. And also tacos.”

---

Live On Air: 10:22 AM

Pastor Jim: “You’ve got a real, uh… energetic sound. A little louder than our usual gospel guests. Tell us about your most recent song—‘Lunar Burn,’ I believe?”

Cassie: “It’s about spiritual transformation.”

Rico: “And maybe arson.”

Maya: “But like, metaphorical arson.”

Thane was quietly fixing a buzzing mic cable with the look of a man contemplating whether biting through it would count as justifiable self-defense.

Pastor Jim chuckled nervously. “Well! You certainly bring a lot of passion. I noticed you folks don’t all, ah, wear shoes?”

Gabriel wiggled his clawed toes helpfully. “We believe in staying grounded.”

---

10:39 AM – Disaster Level: Ascending

It was all going marginally okay until the station intern—a bright-eyed college student named Becky—burst into the studio holding her phone.

“Um, Pastor Jim? The Feral Eclipse TikTok is trending again. Something about a flaming bass solo on a Ferris wheel?”

Pastor Jim slowly turned to Gabriel. “…You were on the Ferris wheel?”

Gabriel: “It was stationary.”

Cassie: “You set it on fire.”

Gabriel: “Mostly stationary.”

---

11:03 AM – Final Blessing

After a final banana bread offering, two awkward selfies, and a moment where Jonah almost accidentally stole a stack of church bulletins (he thought they were flyers for a gig), the band was back in the van, driving fast and wordless down a back road away from 103.7.

Silence reigned.

Then Maya started giggling.

Cassie followed.

Then Gabriel cackled loud enough to scare a field of goats.

Rico wiped his face. “We are never getting booked in Branson now.”

Thane just muttered, “Next time, I’m doing the damn interview alone. In full blackout werewolf mode.”

Mark, from the very back, added dryly: “Please. That might’ve made them like us more.”

The stage setup for the Arkansas Delta County Fair was about as glamorous as a lemonade stand duct-taped to a milking shed. A warped plywood platform, some twitchy string lights, and a questionable number of extension cords formed the heart of Feral Eclipse’s “arena” for the evening.

But it didn’t matter.

Because the second Thane hit the fog cannons and Mark fired up the VariLites with a vengeance (somehow rigged to a borrowed tractor battery and an inverter bought at the local Wal-Mart), the crowd exploded.

Locals, tourists, confused livestock — all drawn in like moths to a howling, claw-shredded flame.

---

7:51 PM – The Set Starts

The opening riff of “Moonwired” screamed across the fairgrounds. Gabriel stomped out center stage like he owned the planet, fangs flashing in the lights. Maya was a force of nature beside him, unleashing rhythm like she was dueling demons in her head.

Rico tore into a solo midair, jumping off a hay bale someone had kicked near the edge of the platform. Jonah’s drumline hit like a machine gun made of thunder and poor decisions.

Cassie stormed the mic like she’d been summoned by a full moon and three Red Bulls, howling the lyrics with such ferocity that the cows in the pen behind the stage started moo-screaming along.

Mark, from his lighting command perch, blasted red, white, and electric blue beams through a wall of fog so thick it looked like the band was performing inside a vape cloud.

---

8:07 PM – Chaos Level: Elevated

The pit formed fast.

But this was Arkansas pit culture.

One guy was two-stepping aggressively. Another was wearing a cowboy hat and crowd-surfing backward. A teenage girl held up a homemade cardboard sign that read “Y’ALL ROCK SO HARD I SPILLED MY NACHOS.”

Someone threw a fried Twinkie.

Rico caught it.

Bit it.

Did not break rhythm.

---

8:19 PM – Cassie’s Mic Dies

Mid-scream, Cassie’s mic cut out with a pathetic bloop. She blinked.

Thane cursed over the comms. “Compressor tripped. Standby. Do not murder me.”

Cassie didn’t wait. She grabbed Jonah’s overhead drum mic, dragged it to center, and started singing into that — bent double, screaming into a rig designed to catch cymbals.

The crowd went feral.

---

8:22 PM – The Stage Itself Rebels

As the band launched into their final chorus of “Ashes Howl Back,” the left side of the stage buckled.

Thane let out a string of profanity that turned two nearby corn dogs inside out.

Gabriel jumped sideways as a speaker tipped over, caught it, and played the next bar of music using his claws on the sub cabinet like a damn washboard.

Rico, grinning, launched into a backbeat that matched it perfectly.

Jonah held the tempo like a man possessed. Maya kicked the broken mic stand into the crowd, where someone caught it like a trophy and immediately tried to use it to air guitar.

---

8:30 PM – Final Note

The band finished in a firestorm of fog, strobes, and yelling.

Cassie threw both hands up like a championship boxer.

Gabriel’s tail twitched like a metronome still chasing the rhythm.

Jonah held up a drumstick in triumph — still sticky from fairground funnel cake.

Mark’s lights cut to black just as Rico nailed the final power chord so hard it knocked a string off his guitar.

The crowd screamed themselves hoarse.

---

Backstage, everyone stood drenched in sweat, smelling like ozone and kettle corn.

Thane leaned against the broken amp stack, breathing hard.

Cassie chugged a water bottle and said, “Well. That was biblical.”

Maya wiped her face. “We survived the Gravitron and the plywood stage. That’s gotta mean something.”

Gabriel grinned. “Yeah. It means we’re invincible.”

Mark muttered, “We’ll see how invincible you feel when I make you carry all this lighting gear back to the van.”

The Arkansas Delta County Fair was a fever dream of hay bales, deep-fried everything, and machinery that had not passed inspection since the Clinton administration. The stage was set up near the edge of the fairgrounds, between the livestock pens and the Ferris wheel that squealed every time it turned.

The band had just finished soundcheck (barely—Jonah’s snare tried to escape mid-test), and the sun was just beginning to set behind the cotton candy stand when Gabriel pointed at a nearby ride.

It was a rickety-looking contraption that looked like someone had strapped rocket boosters to a hamster wheel and called it a thrill.

The faded sign read:
“GRAVITRON-XTREME!!!”
With a scrawled warning beneath it:

“Not responsible for loose teeth, lost dignity, or spatial disorientation.”

Gabriel’s eyes lit up. “Guys. We have to.”

“No,” Thane said instantly.

Maya crossed her arms. “Absolutely not. I’m not trusting my spine to a rusted centrifuge.”

Jonah was already halfway to the ride. “This is how I want to die.”

Rico groaned. “Someone film it if he barfs. I need new content for our TikTok.”

Gabriel grabbed Thane’s wrist. “Come on! We’re werewolves. We heal.”

Thane blinked. “That thing was made before OSHA existed.”

“Exactly,” Gabriel grinned. “Vintage danger!”

---

Moments later…

WHRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR
The Gravitron roared to life like a jet engine with asthma.

Inside the metal drum, Gabriel, Jonah, and Rico were plastered to the spinning wall as the ride tilted and picked up speed.

Gabriel yelled, “I CAN SEE THROUGH TIME!”

Jonah shouted, “WHY ARE MY ORGANS ARGUMENTING ABOUT LOCATION?!”

Rico just laughed. “I REGRET NOTHING!”

Outside the ride, Thane stood next to Mark, arms folded, expression like a father watching his kids light themselves on fire with sparklers.

“This ends with someone puking,” he said.

“Five bucks says it’s Jonah,” Mark replied.

Cassie, chewing on a funnel cake, shrugged. “This is better than cable.”

---

Then came the shriek.

Not from the riders. From the ride.

A sudden CLUNK echoed through the air. The Gravitron jerked hard to one side, lights flickering like a dying UFO. The operator (a teenager who looked like he had no earthly business being near electricity) slammed the emergency stop.

EERRRRRRRRR-CHUNK!

The ride stopped… sideways.

The doors opened.

Rico stumbled out first, immediately dropped to his knees, and declared, “The Earth is spinning. Stop the planet. I wanna get off.”

Jonah staggered out behind him, holding a cotton candy stick like a war banner.

Gabriel… wobbled out last, sunglasses sideways, shirt flapping.

“I tasted gravity,” he whispered. “It was lime-flavored.”

---

Back at the stage, Thane handed Gabriel a bottle of water. “Still vintage danger?”

Gabriel grinned weakly. “Totally worth it.”

Cassie cackled as Jonah dropped onto a hay bale with a groan. “Now who’s gonna explain to the crowd why our lead guitarist looks like he was exorcised?”

Rico gave a thumbs-up from the grass. “I’ll play lying down.”

---

As the sun dipped behind the fairgrounds, the smell of fried butter and engine grease filled the air. Lights flashed across the tilt-a-whirl. A pair of cows mooed somewhere near the back of the field.

And as the band gathered their gear, Gabriel leaned toward Thane and whispered, “If we survive this tour, we’re getting one of those rides installed at the studio.”

Thane didn’t answer.

He just walked away muttering, “Only if it’s OSHA-compliant.”

The tour van rattled up the long, cracked driveway of the Outer Limits Lodge, the only available accommodations within thirty miles of the next night’s Arkansas county fair gig.

The sign out front—half-lit, gently buzzing—read:

“OUTER LIMITS LODGE: We Believe. AAA Discount. Weekly Rates.”

A glowing alien face was painted over the “O” in Lodge. A smaller sign underneath added:

“Free Wi-Fi (sometimes)”

Jonah leaned forward between the front seats. “I swear to god, if a gray steps out and tries to probe me, I’m leaving.”

Rico was already giggling. “What if it’s hot though?”

Thane, behind the wheel, let out a deep sigh. “I miss roaches. Roaches were honest.”

---

The lobby looked like The X-Files threw up in a Cracker Barrel.

Alien statues—plaster, resin, maybe fiberglass—were scattered everywhere. One was holding a “WELCOME EARTHLINGS” sign. Another was dressed like Elvis.

Glow-in-the-dark stars coated the ceiling. The front desk clerk had dyed green hair, a tinfoil hat, and a name tag that read: “SHARLA – NOT A CLONE.”

Gabriel loved every second of it.

“I want to live here forever.”

Cassie deadpanned, “You’d eat the hotel soap and marry the vending machine.”

Maya looked around. “If I wake up with an anal probe, someone’s getting dropkicked into the next dimension.”

Sharla handed over the keys—literal, old-school brass keys attached to tiny alien heads.

“All rooms come with a complimentary conspiracy theory,” she added cheerfully.

Thane muttered, “We already live one.”

---

The rooms were… something.

Jonah opened his door and was immediately greeted by wallpaper covered in glowing UFOs. His bedspread had crop circles on it. The TV played only static and a VHS copy of Fire in the Sky was left on the dresser.

Mark discovered his room had a lava lamp… filled with glittery alien heads. He didn’t react. He just stood in the doorway for a full minute before turning to Gabriel and saying, “I’m not sleeping. Ever again.”

Gabriel, meanwhile, was thriving. His room had inflatable aliens, a hanging spaceship lamp, and a poster that said “TAKE ME TO YOUR DEALER.”

“This is my sanctuary,” he whispered, hugging the alien lamp.

Thane, on the other hand, opened his bathroom to find:

1. A sink with reverse hot and cold labels
2. A toilet that flushed upward (somehow)
3. And a cockroach wearing a tiny tinfoil hat (probably unintentional)

He backed out slowly and went straight to Mark’s room.

“You have fog fluid left, right?”

Mark nodded. “Why?”

“We’re sterilizing this place.”

---

The night got weirder.

Jonah’s TV turned on by itself at 3:13 a.m.
Cassie found a pamphlet titled “How to Survive Reptilian Encounters” under her pillow.
Rico swore he saw lights in the sky—and they blinked in rhythm to “Lunar Burn.”

And Gabriel?

Gabriel sat in bed wearing alien sunglasses, watching static and narrating his own alien documentary:

“This species is known for caffeine worship and poor impulse control. Observe its mating call—”
chugs a soda
“—followed by ritual dancing.”
flails arms like a maniac

---

The next morning, the whole crew staggered into the lobby like sleep-deprived survivors of a cosmic horror film.

Sharla greeted them with a tray of neon-green muffins.

“They’re pistachio!” she chirped. “Probably.”

No one ate them.

Thane signed out with a snarl and a muttered, “I will burn this place to the ground.”

Cassie asked, “Any chance we can check into a normal hotel next time?”

Mark handed her a tinfoil hat.

“Define normal.”

The band had barely gotten through their post-show coma nap when they were whisked across town to a “surprise” fan-organized event—set up by the local promo team as a thank-you for playing in what Thane kept referring to as “the bovine apocalypse barn.”

The venue?

A themed restaurant called “Wolf Howlz BBQ & Arcade.”

Yes. Really. The sign out front was a neon werewolf holding a rib like a guitar. Its animatronic arm moved. Barely. It looked like it was dying of rabies.

Gabriel lit up like Christmas. “I love this place already.”

Cassie stared. “It has a moon bounce.”

Mark squinted at the sign. “It also has animatronics with mange.”

Thane muttered, “I’m going to start drinking again.”

---

Inside, it was even weirder.

The place was decked out in faux wood paneling, wolf-themed murals (bad ones), and weirdly sensual velvet paintings of howling beasts. Every table had pawprint napkin holders. The air smelled like brisket and existential crisis.

At the back of the dining room, under a blinking sign that said “FANGS & FRIENDS FAN FEST”, sat nearly forty people in custom-made Feral Eclipse shirts. Most looked fairly normal. Some looked… committed.

One guy wore fake fur ears and had painted claws. A woman in the front row was clutching a plushie of Gabriel.

Rico muttered, “It’s finally happened. We’re a cult.”

Gabriel leaned over to Thane. “If someone proposes marriage, I accept.”

---

The meet-and-greet kicked off with a mic that cut out every third word.

Fan 1: “Thane, what’s your inspiration when you’re—”
crackle-pop-zzt
Fan 2: “Gabriel, is it true you sleep upside down in a guitar case?”
Fan 3: “Maya, can I duel you for dominance?”
Maya: “Try it and I’ll beat you with a cheese grater.”

Jonah took a photo with a teenage fan who asked him to sign her prosthetic leg—he did it without missing a beat, adding “Drum on!” above his name.

Mark was asked if his fur was real.

He just deadpanned, “No. I buy it from Etsy.”

Thane was offered a ziplock bag full of “authentic werewolf hair.”

He blinked. “…This is dog hair.”

The fan nodded proudly. “But it’s husky, so it’s close.”

Gabriel was in his element — posing, hugging, signing whatever was put in front of him. He arm-wrestled a guy in a wolf kigurumi and lost—on purpose, of course. Probably.

Then came the fan art.
So. Much. Fan art.

Some of it was stunning.
Some of it was… anatomically confusing.

Cassie politely clapped.
Rico bit his tongue.
Maya visibly gagged at one.
Mark stared for a solid five seconds, then said, “Well. That’s a perspective.”

---

Eventually, food was served — BBQ nachos, fried pickles, and sliders the size of hockey pucks. A karaoke machine wheezed into life, and suddenly a girl in a hoodie was belting a surprisingly accurate cover of “Lunar Burn.”

Gabriel gasped. “She nailed my scream!”

Thane raised a brow. “Recruit her. Fire Cassie.”

Cassie: “I will set you on fire with a microphone stand.”

---

By the time the night ended, the band was half-asleep, full of grease, and emotionally overwhelmed by the sheer intensity of their fanbase.

As they stumbled back toward the van, someone tapped Thane’s shoulder.

He turned to see a small, quiet-looking kid with a sketchbook.

“Um… hi. I just wanted to say… your music helps. A lot.”

Thane’s expression softened. “Thank you.”

The kid handed him the sketchbook. “I drew your whole band. I made sure you all had claws and fangs… but you’re smiling. You don’t smile much in photos.”

Thane blinked, flipped through it… and genuinely smiled.

Gabriel leaned close and whispered, “Told you we’re more than a band.”

Thane ruffled the kid’s hair gently with one clawed hand. “You’ve got a hell of an eye.”

They left the restaurant not just with leftovers, but with warmth. Real warmth.

The band rolled into the venue lot covered in post-storm road grime, smelling faintly of old jerky, regret, and ozone. The GPS declared their destination with cheery finality:

“You have arrived at Red River Agricultural Expo Center.”

Cassie peered out the window. “This looks like a place where bands go to die.”

The “venue” was a giant metal building shaped like a warehouse had a baby with a livestock auction barn. There were tractors parked out front. A faded banner above the roll-up door read:

“SOUNDS OF SUMMER MUSIC SERIES – TONIGHT: FERAL ECPLISE”

Thane’s left eye twitched. “They misspelled our name.”

Gabriel shrugged. “Technically that’s still on brand.”

Maya leaned against the van door, scanning the parking lot. “Are we sharing the venue with a farm auction?”

“No,” Jonah said. “Worse. That cow over there just licked the mic stand.”

Sure enough, there was a Holstein standing dead center on the stage platform inside the building. A man in overalls and Crocs was trying to coax it down with what appeared to be a half-eaten corn dog.

Mark stared at him. “Is that our stagehand?”

The man waved. “Name’s Tyler. Don’t worry, she only poops when she’s scared.”

Thane’s icy glare could’ve frozen lava.

---

Inside, the acoustics were… well, “agricultural.” Every sound echoed like they were inside a giant grain silo filled with tin foil and betrayal. The stage was lit by a single row of flickering overhead fluorescents, and the “dressing room” was just a corral behind the bleachers.

Gabriel spun in a slow circle. “I can feel my standards dying.”

Rico, tuning up near the tractor display, muttered, “Don’t look at the John Deere calendar. It’s judging you.”

Maya kicked at a bale of hay. “I’m allergic to this level of bullshit.”

Cassie found a crate labeled “LIVE BAIT” and sat on it, sighing. “On the plus side, I’ve always wanted to play a gig where the audience might include a chicken.”

---

Soundcheck was… chaos.

The main speakers crackled like haunted walkie-talkies. The mic cables were so short they had to stand in formation like a 1950s doo-wop group. Every time Mark adjusted the lighting truss, it squealed like a dying pig. Literally. They realized there was an actual pig somewhere under the bleachers.

“WHO BRINGS LIVESTOCK TO A SHOW?!” Thane shouted over the din.

Tyler yelled back, “It’s Bring Your Pet Night! We’re very inclusive!”

Cassie, deadpan: “…This is how I die.”

---

And yet…

When showtime hit, it was magic.

Maybe it was the absurdity. Maybe it was the hay-scented air. Maybe it was because chaos is where Feral Eclipse thrives.

The crowd—farmers, hipsters, toddlers in earmuffs, three guys in camo overalls, and an elderly woman with a ferret on her shoulder—went absolutely wild. A dude crowdsurfed in a horse costume. Someone brought a watermelon with “WE LOVE GABRIEL” carved into it.

Gabriel leaned into the mic. “This song goes out to my bovine sisters in the back!”

The cow mooed.

Thunderous applause.

---

After the show, they collapsed in the van, sweating, disoriented, and unsure if what just happened had been real.

Thane ran a hand down his face. “I will never recover from this night.”

Gabriel grinned. “The cow gave us a standing ovation. What more do you want?”

Mark cracked a soda. “Peace. Quiet. A venue that doesn’t smell like hay and existential dread.”

Jonah leaned back against his seat, grinning. “Nah, man. We’re living the dream.”

A beat of silence.

Then the cow outside the venue mooed one last time… like a benediction.

The next morning, the sky looked like someone had drop-kicked a blender full of gray paint across the horizon.

Mark, sipping lukewarm gas station coffee and staring up at the swirling cloud cover, muttered, “That’s not ominous or anything.”

Jonah climbed into the van with a breakfast burrito the size of his forearm and said, “I don’t know if it’s eggs or glue, but I’m committed.”

Rico slid into the front seat, glancing at the radar on his phone. “Uh… guys? There’s a big red blob headed our direction. Like, storm-chaser-big.”

Cassie leaned over. “Define ‘big.’”

“Like… biblical.”

Gabriel, already vibrating from his third can of Monster, grinned like it was Christmas morning. “Sweet. Let’s race it.”

Thane, who was trying to refold a road map with claws and mounting rage, growled, “We are not racing a tornado, Gabriel.”

Maya, buckling in behind them, smirked. “That’s what cowards say.”

---

The van rolled out of town just as the first fat drops of rain started to smack the windshield. The wind was howling before they even hit the state line. Lightning split the sky like angry punctuation. Thunder followed immediately after, rattling the dashboard and causing Jonah to choke on his burrito mid-bite.

They hadn’t even gone ten miles before a weather alert blasted through every phone in the van.

“TORNADO WARNING. SEEK SHELTER IMMEDIATELY.”

Cassie, deadpan: “Great. Anyone bring a storm cellar?”

Gabriel, nose practically on the glass: “That cloud is spinning! SPINNING!”

Thane: “If you open that window I will rip the handle off.”

Mark’s voice came over the backseat comms: “Left side. Funnel cloud. Confirmed.”

A collective “SHIT!” rang out from every mouth in the van.

---

They found “shelter” in the loosest sense of the word: a crumbling roadside attraction called Big Pete’s BBQ & Gift Barn—complete with a ten-foot fiberglass pig statue, a half-toppled billboard, and one terrified old man in a rocking chair on the front porch who just nodded solemnly as the band spilled out of the van and into his life like a caffeine-fueled tornado of their own.

Inside, the decor looked like a pig exploded in a Cracker Barrel.

“Y’all here to buy jerky or die in the storm?” the old man asked.

Thane snarled. “Can’t it be both?”

---

The lights flickered. The wind roared. Something slammed into the side of the building—hard.

Everyone went still.

Cassie stared at the windows. “…Was that a cow?”

Jonah peeked through the blinds. “No. Worse. It was a porta-potty.”

The building groaned. The roof shuddered.

Mark, deadpan: “I’m not dying next to a shelf of bacon-scented candles.”

Gabriel, now huddled under a table with a bag of peanut brittle: “At least the WiFi works.”

Thane stood in the center of the store, arms folded, dripping wet, glaring at the sky through the warped glass like he was ready to fistfight the weather.

“I swear,” he muttered, “if that funnel cloud touches our truss rig, I will hunt it.”

The old man took a sip of iced tea and added helpfully, “Tornadoes don’t like angry folks. They go where the vibes are bad.”

Thane didn’t blink. “Perfect.”

---

Thirty minutes later, the storm finally passed. The sky cracked open to blue like nothing had happened, as if the tornado had just been stopping by for a sandwich.

The van was still intact.

Mostly.

There was a single lawn chair wedged into the front grille, and one of the side mirrors now hung by a cable like a sad earring. But it still ran.

They all climbed back in.

Nobody spoke for five miles.

Then Jonah said, “…I dropped my burrito.”

Gabriel replied, “I dropped my soul.”

The sky was charcoal gray as Feral Eclipse pulled into the gravel pit that passed for the motel parking lot. The sign—half lit, half falling off—read “Rest Eazy Inn”, like it was a challenge.

Rico peered out the window and groaned. “There’s literally duct tape on the roof.”

Cassie leaned over. “Is that… barbed wire on the fence?”

Jonah pulled his hoodie tighter. “Yeah. Yeah it is. I think it’s there to keep us in.”

The band tumbled out of the van, road-weary and rain-damp, dragging bags toward the motel office—a foggy glass box that smelled like despair and cat pee. The desk clerk was a 400-year-old man with a nicotine-stained beard and a voice like a chainsaw filled with gravel.

“You the ones in 4A through 4G?” he rasped. “Don’t touch the mini-fridge. It bites.”

Gabriel blinked. “…what now?”

“No refunds,” the man added, tossing them seven keys with mismatched plastic tags.

---

Ten minutes later, Thane stepped into his room.

And immediately howled.

Not a metaphorical howl. A full-chested, claws-out, pissed-off alpha roar.

The bathroom light flickered like it was haunted. The tile floor was cracked and sticky. The mattress had one spring poking out and a suspicious stain the size of a dinner plate. And in the bathroom—three cockroaches were having a conference in the sink. One was wearing what looked like a piece of hair gel wrapper as a cape.

Gabriel opened the adjoining door between their rooms and instantly flinched back.

“Thane? You okay—”

“NO. I AM NOT OKAY.” Thane was standing shirtless in the bathroom doorway, holding a motel towel like it had personally offended his ancestors. “THERE ARE BUGS IN THE SHOWER. I SAW FANGS.”

Across the hall, Mark was calmly wiping grime off the inside of his window with a t-shirt. “Mine just smells like mildew and broken promises.”

Rico poked his head out of his room. “Mine smells like… cherry cough syrup and despair.”

“Mine has a dead cricket in the fridge,” Maya reported, stone-faced. “He had a tiny tombstone made out of a hotel mint.”

Cassie emerged, holding up a single flip-flop. “Is this blood? Or barbecue sauce? Or both?”

Thane stormed out of his room, claws out, fur bristling, ice-blue eyes blazing. “I swear to Luna, if another roach waves at me, I will burn this place to the ground with my bare fangs.”

Gabriel tried—tried—to be the voice of reason. “Thane. Deep breath. We’ve stayed in worse.”

“No,” Thane growled, “we haven’t.”

Mark strolled out behind him, still calm, still grumpy. “Mine came with a tiny Gideon Bible and a raccoon footprint on the ceiling. But hey—at least the lights work.”

The group stood in the parking lot for several seconds. Rain started to fall again. Jonah dramatically dropped his duffel bag in a puddle.

“I vote we sleep in the van.”

Everyone, including Thane, simultaneously muttered, “Seconded.”

They reloaded everything in grim silence and piled back into the van. At least it didn’t have roaches. Just old fries under the seats and Gabriel’s three empty coffee cups rolling around like soda cans in a washing machine.

Cassie pulled her hoodie over her face. “Next stop better just have bedbugs, not boss fights.”

The diner’s flickering neon sign buzzed against the otherwise quiet Oklahoma night, casting a soft red glow on the rain-speckled parking lot. A warped plastic letterboard proudly advertised “ALL DAY BREAKFAST – NO REFUNDS.” Perfect.

The van groaned as it pulled into the lot, all seven members of Feral Eclipse spilling out in various states of exhaustion, crankiness, and post-frat-party chaos. The scent of old grease, burnt coffee, and questionable decisions wafted into the humid night air.

Inside, the diner looked like time stopped in 1987 and nobody told it to start again. A jukebox in the corner played a suspiciously off-key version of Africa by Toto. A tired-looking waitress with a half-faded neck tattoo nodded toward the largest booth in the back.

Thane led the charge, coiled audio cable still looped around one shoulder like a warning sign. He flopped into the booth with a heavy sigh, clearly one wrong condiment packet away from a meltdown.

Gabriel slid in beside him, vibrating with residual caffeine and frat party adrenaline. His fur was slightly ruffled, shirt half-untucked, and he was still humming the melody of whatever chaotic song they’d covered last.

Mark took the edge seat near the window, his eyes scanning the parking lot like something might still explode. He muttered, “If someone orders avocado toast in here, I’m walking back to Oklahoma City.”

Maya plopped in across from Gabriel, her boots thudding against the linoleum. “That party had more beer than brains.”

“Which is saying a lot,” Rico muttered, rubbing at a mysterious bruise on his shoulder. “I saw someone doing keg stands off a moving golf cart.”

Jonah, eyes red and hair in full post-headbang disarray, sat down and immediately faceplanted onto the table. “Someone wake me up when we’re famous or dead.”

Cassie was last to join, still trying to pull her phone charger out of a tangle of cables in her purse. “We are famous. Just… weirdly.”

A waitress named Debbie (or at least her name tag said so, though the “i” was replaced with a middle finger sticker) came over, chewing gum like it owed her money.

“What’ll it be?”

“Coffee,” growled Thane.

“Coffee and bacon,” Gabriel added.

“Bacon, eggs, toast, hashbrowns, and don’t skimp on the hashbrowns,” Maya said, glaring like Debbie might try.

“Just coffee. Black. Leave the pot,” Mark deadpanned.

Debbie nodded. “Y’all look like you’ve seen some shit.”

Rico blinked. “We are the shit.”

She blinked slowly at him and scribbled something on her pad that may or may not have been their order.

The group slumped in their seats while waiting, the diner’s low hum becoming a kind of lullaby.

Gabriel suddenly sat up. “Hey. Remember the birthday party show?”

Thane didn’t even look up. “If you bring that up one more time, I’m feeding you to Mark.”

Jonah raised a hand. “I still have frosting in places that aren’t medically recommended.”

They all burst into exhausted laughter.

The food arrived like a greasy miracle, and the band tore into it like they hadn’t eaten in a week. Gabriel dunked toast into his eggs with the precision of a man who’d done this many times before. Mark, despite himself, actually cracked a smile as he carefully deconstructed his pancake stack.

Cassie reached across to clink her coffee mug against Maya’s. “To surviving another night.”

Maya smirked. “Barely.”

Jonah stirred, lifting his face from the table with a syrup packet stuck to his cheek. “Wait. Where are we again?”

Rico, mouth full of bacon, just pointed toward the rain-smeared window. “Nowhere good.”

But the diner lights flickered. The jukebox glitched into a distorted version of Sweet Dreams. Outside, the rain eased into mist, steam curling from the pavement like ghostly applause.

And for one brief, weird, wonderful moment, everything was okay.

Even if only until the check arrived.

Because if one more guy says ‘play Freebird,’ Thane might commit a felony.

---

The sun was barely down when the Feral Eclipse tour van pulled up to what looked like the unholy spawn of a plantation house and a liquor store. Greek letters lit in mismatched neon screamed ΑΒΨ, and the thudding bass from inside rattled the siding like the building was trying to shake off its own shame.

Rico leaned out the window. “Oh god. I can already smell the Natty Light and Axe body spray.”

Gabriel grinned wide, tail already wagging. “THIS is more like it.”

Jonah peeked out from behind his hoodie. “I don’t know, man. I see four shirtless guys doing keg stands and one in a Pikachu onesie with a bullhorn. I don’t feel safe.”

Mark muttered from the back, “I haven’t seen this much stupidity since we let Gabriel mix vodka and cold brew.”

Thane killed the engine. “Alright. If we die, I’m haunting whoever booked this.”

---

Inside, it was absolute carnage.

A crowd of sweaty college students swarmed the main floor, red Solo cups in every hand. A kiddie pool full of Jell-O wobbled near the DJ booth. Someone had spray-painted “FERAL ECPLISE RULZ” on the wall. (Spelling optional.)

Cassie surveyed the crowd. “Jesus. They’re all drunk enough to think we’re the Wiggles.”

A frat bro in a backward visor and aviators stumbled up to Maya and slurred, “You guys do covers? Can you play like… Nickelback?”

Maya stared at him. “I’ll play your spleen like a banjo if you don’t move.”

The bro wandered off in confusion, still shouting “Photograph.”

---

Stage Setup: Frat Edition

• Thane was given one working outlet and a folding table that collapsed under the weight of a single mixer.
• Mark’s “lighting rig” consisted of three smart bulbs duct-taped to a ceiling fan.
• Jonah was told to set up “where the beer pong table used to be.”
• Gabriel got distracted for twenty minutes teaching a stoner how to hold a bass backwards.
• Rico tuned his guitar over the sound of a dude vomiting into a plastic plant.

---

Showtime.

Someone shouted “WOOOO!” and pressed play on the smoke machine—which was actually a humidifier filled with vape juice. A cloud of strawberry mango wafted across the stage like a bad dream.

Cassie grabbed the mic. “We are Feral Eclipse. Prepare yourselves.”

Someone shouted back, “PLAY SKRILLEX!”

Cassie ignored them and screamed into the mic like a banshee on fire. Rico ripped into a solo. Jonah knocked over a lawn chair with the sheer force of his kick drum.

Gabriel crowd-surfed for five full seconds before the crowd just sort of… forgot to hold him. He crashed into a beer cooler, popped up soaking wet, and howled with laughter.

Thane was screaming into his headset. “I SWEAR TO LUNA, IF SOMEONE UNPLUGS MY POWER STRIP AGAIN—”

Mark, calmly balancing a flashlight and a fog remote, triggered a strobe burst so intense it sent half the crowd into a spontaneous TikTok dance.

Maya’s guitar string snapped mid-solo. She replaced it mid-riff using a shoelace. Nobody noticed. She was too badass.

---

By the end of the night:

• Three frat bros had confessed to Gabriel that they now “totally get werewolves.”
• Jonah had somehow acquired a tank top with “DRUM DADDY” printed on it.
• Thane was threatening to electrify the beer keg.
• Rico had a fan in his lap asking if he “wanted to jam later.” Rico did not.

And Cassie?

Cassie stood on the roof of a cooler, bathed in red light, screaming the final chorus as the crowd howled like a wolf pack gone wrong.

---

Afterward, the band dragged themselves back to the van — soaked, deafened, and kind of amazed.

Gabriel flopped into his seat, still laughing. “Okay. That was a shitshow.”

Thane leaned back, wiping beer off his face. “Yeah.”

“But like… a fun shitshow.”

Jonah nodded, holding up his “Drum Daddy” shirt. “I’m framing this.”

Mark just downed another soda and muttered, “Next stop better have a damn theater.”