The Cult of Scorlash

Scor-lash… Scor-lash… Scor-lash… Scor-lash… Neon motel, dust in the heat, they rolled in quiet on trembling wheels. Blanket in the backseat, glow underneath, like radioactive something that refuses to heal. Clerk saw green and he went stone cold, like he’d seen that light in a nightmare before. He didn’t ask questions. He just whispered low, “He’s back.” and the locks didn’t matter anymore. Metal on metal, hearts on fire, the town starts breathing like a wire. Kevin grins in the shadows, eyes like a sin snack goblin fingers already reaching in. THEY KNOW THAT GLOW. THEY KNOW THAT NAME. THEY KNOW THAT CURSE DON’T DIE THE SAME. SCORLASH! He don’t move fast but he don’t move clean. He’s got that bad-luck blessing, that vending-machine dream. SCORLASH! When the shell light hits, you feel the floor. You don’t want peace you want MORE. They gathered in a booth with syrup-cup candles, offering chips like a sacrament. Like snacks could save ‘em. Like snacks could handle what Sector C did, what the glow meant. Llama at the wheel like “this is my life,” eyes deadpan, soul held on by thread. Bob just snored like a saint of crime, while prophecy dripped from the neon red. And the glow shifts green to blue… then purple… when Kevin’s near you. THEY KNOW THAT GLOW. THEY KNOW THAT NAME. THEY KNOW THAT CURSE DON’T DIE THE SAME. SCORLASH! The town starts shaking, the cult sings loud and Kevin’s in the offering bowl like “yeah, this is my crowd.” Bob wakes up… and the air goes tight. One slow blink… and the world turns white. Glow turns RED and the room turns small. Nobody prays, they just hit the wall. Scor-lash… Scor-lash… Scor-lash… Scor-lash… THEY KNOW THAT GLOW. THEY KNOW THAT NAME. YOU CAN’T OUTRUN A CURSED FAME. SCORLASH! Snacks are a curse and he’s the proof glow in the blanket, doom in the booth. SCORLASH! When he hits that light, you lose control dirty little legend with a hungry little soul. Scor-lash… Scor-lash… Scor-lash… Scor-lash…