“Freebird”, the Lynyrd Skynyrd classic rock anthem, is finishing up. Don Nelson chugs into his booth, his forehead gleaming with sweat, and, before slipping on his headphones, announces to Hardcasual and his producer, Miles, “That’s my bathroom break song. An oldie, but a goodie.”

As the final triumphant notes ring out, Don arches his back and slips into his radio persona: “Wolfman” Nelson. “That was Freebird, of course, and now we’re going to launch right into In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida. Here at the only station that–” The electric organ kicks in, and Nelson slips off the headphones. “I wasn’t finished.”

Later that day, Wolfman treats us to lunch at the 5 to 1 Cafe across the street.  “Been here now, oh, wow, about four years. Came out after my divorce. I’ve seen a lot of changes since then. The chief export in this town used to be fog, now? Now it’s ro–!” The lights start to flicker. “Oh, jeez.”

A siren blares. Bloods start to ooze slowly from our cherry pie. The coffee in our cups turn tar-black and bubble over. Day turns to night. The streetlights shine with a rust red glow that gives the fog a menacing aura.

Nelson flashes his made-for-radio smile. “So, umm, have you heard about this new musical by REO Speedwagon?” Nelson asks and pulls a pistol out of his messenger bag. “Killer, right?”

A figure emerges from the fog. It looks like a bent-over woman in a Versace pantsuit. Her face is covered with a large gaping orifice.  A pack of dogs jump on her and tear off her legs. She howls and bleeds brown gunk.

“You know, can you excuse me a sec?” Nelson says as he rushes over to the door of the cafe and locks it. “That’s a manifestation of my masculine insecurities in regard to my ex-wife. Me and my shrink have been working on that. Or, we were, until he was stabbed in the neck by the guilt over his three aborted babies. Have you seen our new KROQ hats?”

The Versace monster lets out a deafening roar. Nelson’s voice, a properly tuned instrument in its own right, shouts over the noise, “When I first came here, it was nothing but static. Every single frequency, static. It just hit me right there and then: These people need rock.”

We watch as a zombie cowboy in bondage gear whips out a ten-foot sword penis and uses it to ensnare the Versace Monster. Before you know it, a cadre of unimaginably terrifying creatures are taking turns raping the Versace monster. It’s a HR Giger gangbang.

Nelson wipes his forehead. “That’s a new one. You know, I had a lot of offers to DJ in New York and Los Angeles, but Silent Hill just seemed like the place for me. Mostly because I’m still looking for my daughter, who sent me a letter from the post office here.” He licks his lips, the color draining from his face. “She’s been dead seven years.”

Nelson looks entranced by the loaded pistol in his hand. The Versace monster lets out a primal wail. The cherry pie grows spider legs and runs out of the café, presumably to join in the gangbang.

“Rock music,” Nelson says sadly. “Killer.”

Suddenly, it’s three in the afternoon again. A car drives by, the driver weeping. Don “The Wolfman” Nelson looks at us with an empty smile. The radio plays “Wish You Were Here” by Pink Floyd.

[With additional reporting by Hardcasual correspondant Filipe Salgado.]