CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - "There is a village where everyone screams at the setting sun. I will find it" Creepypasta

Episode Date: September 19, 2020

CHECK OUT THE AUTHOR'S COVER OF THIS STORY► https://youtu.be/tuAvwvIbCqsCREEPYPASTA STORY►by MikeJesus: https://www.reddit.com/r/MJLPresents/...Creepypastas are the campfire tales of the internet. Horror stories spread through Reddit r/nosleep, forums and blogs, rather than word of mouth. Whether you believe these scary stories to be true or not is left to your own discretion and imagination. LISTEN TO CREEPYPASTAS ON THE GO-SPOTIFY► https://open.spotify.com/show/7l0iRPd...iTUNES► https://podcasts.apple.com/gb/podcast...CREEPY THUMBNAIL ART BY►Peter Polach: https://www.artstation.com/artwork/lGZBJhttps://www.instagram.com/sabbasapterus/SUGGESTED CREEPYPASTA PLAYLISTS-►"Good Places to Start"- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g7YCb...►"Personal Favourites"- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AEa2R...►"Written by me"- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gX6RA...►"Long Stories"- https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list...FOLLOW ME ON-►Twitter: https://twitter.com/Creeps_McPasta►Instagram: https://instagram.com/creepsmcpasta/►Twitch: http://www.twitch.tv/creepsmcpasta►Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/CreepsMcPastaCREEPYPASTA MUSIC/ SFX- ►http://bit.ly/Audionic ♪►http://bit.ly/Myuusic ♪►http://bit.ly/incompt ♪►http://bit.ly/EpidemicM ♪-This creepypasta is for entertainment purposes only-

Not a lot of people know this, but up until the 1800s, it wasn't uncommon for wealthy travellers to blindfold themselves when crossing mountain ranges. It seems bizarre today, but the same vistas that we now use to make our desktop background snazzy used to inspire fear in our ancestors. They look out of their carriage at the rugged, snow-peak stone before them, at the dark valleys, untouched by human hands below them, and avert their gaze in fear. land which like civilization wasn't beautiful. It was terrifying. Out there, in their untamed wilderness, there was danger. There were things beyond comprehension. Out there, in the impassable wood, there was death.

A piece of cloth wrapped around one's eyes would help stave off thoughts of human fragility. The whole idea seems silly, but having heard, heard what I have heard, I can't help but wonder whether the nobleman who were passing through the Slovakian Tatra mountain range at sundown wore something else along with their blindfold. I wonder if they wore earmuffs. My trip to Slovakia was a last-ditch effort to save the band. The Warriors of Perun was my baby and I knew if I didn't put together some new songs it would become a stillbirth. I had hoped that by escaping the constant rustling of Prague subway system and the mistake

mysterious smell of dog food that lingered around my neighbourhood, I would manage to unlock some magical creative energy. Lyric ideas that could fill entire albums hung from trees in the forests of our eastern neighbour. I figured all I had to do was disconnect from the internet and go pick up the luscious inspiration fruit. I... was wrong. Even though Slovakia is completely landlocked, the mountain lodge that I had ended up booking smelled pervasively of The lodge also happens to be the closest thing to a village pub in the area, so every day from noon until sunrise, the wall shook with Palenka-fueled singing sessions. The part of their advertisement that mentioned a tranquil rural location was also misleading.

Whilst the Goral Inn was, indeed, located in the middle of nowhere, it was also located right next to a major road that led to the middle of nowhere. The Tatra Mountain Vista, which I came to see, was constantly surrounded by the fog of Polish truck drivers. Within the first hour of me getting settled into the girl in, I'd heard the drunk men downstairs how the same song about throwing cherry branches into unmarried women's dresses thrice. This was not the writing retreat that I had in mind. I considered getting in my car and driving back towards the smell of dog food. But I reminded myself that my trip to Slovakia was a lot of. last-ditch effort to save the band. You can't give up halfway through a Hail Mary. I refilled my

vape, avoided getting run over, crossing the road, and hopped the fence into the forest in search of inspiration. After a couple minutes of awkwardly stomping through shrubs, I found a quaint hiking trail that I thought could inspire a chorus in me. The crackling twigs beneath my feet brought back memories of how Gustav, our drummer, would slam crackling electricity out of his set. If the birds would have been chirping faster, and maybe a bit more manicly, they'd sound just like the killer licks that Theon could hammer out on a mandolin. The entire forest had conspired to remind me of my bandmates, but it refused to give me what I truly wanted.

Inspiration I was drawing a complete blank creatively. So, I pushed further. The forest trail slowly disappeared. beneath my feet. The air became cool under the shade of the thickening tree line and the happily chirping birds were replaced with a whistling of the wood. I just kept on walking, leaving a thick cloud of strawberry cheesecake vapes smoke behind me. I knew that somewhere in the forest there was a muse that would help me spin gold into my notes app. All I had to do was

find her. Instead, I found someone else. A pale girl. passed out on a bed of moss. She looked hard. The dress she wore gave off the impression of being made out of potato sack and her mouth was covered in the slightest hint of purple. The blueberry bush next to her provided some explanation,

but there was still something about her that pulled on the strings of my brain. Pale girl lying in a bed of moss, mourning her best friend's loss. As soon as the words manifested in my head, I could see Thayan rolling her eyes. The Warriors of Perun deserved better than cryptic single-syllable rhymes.

I could do better. I just needed to try harder. I took another puff of my vape and tried to come up with something more creative. Just as I could feel another wave of lyrics stirring in the back of my skull, the girl opened her eyes. I immediately became self-conscious.

Someone had called me watching them sleep again. Whoa, another person, I exclaimed, hoping to sidestep the awkwardness. She brushed aside the cloud of smoke and stared at my vape. I want to hit? Strawberry cheesecake. I tried to make my offer as casual as I could, but the smoke chocked back in my throat. She waited for my coughing fit to die down before she answered. No, thank you, the girl replied in a hoarse voice.

your loss, I said, and took another less embarrassing puff of my vape. The girl's eyes bulged as they darted around my body. It was as if I was the first human being that she had ever seen, as if the mere existence of a vape was some work of science fiction. For a split second, I was worried that I'd stumbled upon some strange cult reject, but when she started to stare at my hat, my mind eased. Strange clothes, pale skin. bad at social cues, and is interested in my cool snapback?

I figured the chances of me bumping into a graphic designer, even in the middle of the forest, was still higher than the chances of me bumping into an escaped lunatic. Gustav had been complaining about how our logo looked more like a bearded man sitting on a dog rather than a pagan god riding his steed into battle. As much as I hated to admit it, I was partial to agree. I planned to leave Slovakia with something more than just,

lyrics started to ruin my head. Man, it's so nice out here without any emails or IMs, right? It's like we're living in a completely different world, I said, trying to establish some camaraderie before moving on to logo design. She just stared back at me, fascinated by my hat. Which lodge are you staying at? I asked. You wouldn't have heard of it, she said. I noted her hipster response as more evident as more evident

for the graphic designer theory. Cool, cool, cool, cool, cool, I said, puffing my fate from morale. I'm chilling at the girl in. Came out here for two weeks just to kind of get away from stuff, you know? I'm a songwriter. Well, I think of myself more as a poet, but whatever, that's just a label. Figured a bit of the forest would help me write some really earthy stuff. There's not enough nature in modern life, you know?

You make music? Her eyes lit up. The high and mighty anger was working. I doubled down. I make art, I said, reaching for my phone. I'd show you, but... Oh damn, this signal here. One bar.

A tiny sliver of nothing in a desert, but still better than actual nothing. I pulled up a video from one of our performances and played it. The girl stood entirely too close to me. I could have sworn she was smelling me, but I didn't care. Even though the pixelated video was buffering every two seconds, it brought back high-definition memories. I was back in that dingy dungeon bar, rocking out and tasting the flavour of reality that they don't keep stocked on the shelves.

The Warriors of Perun stood in front of the wild crowd like preachers, delivering an ecstatic sermon to a devoted flock. I needed to be there again. I couldn't let the band die because of my writer's block. That's when I heard it It started off as a low rumble I even ignored it for a second Mistaking it for echo or distant thunder But the sky was clear and red in the setting sun

This was not thunder Do you hear that? I asked Pausing the video There was a low creeping dread in the noise I could feel it in the back of my neck. Hear what? The girl blinked.

That, I said. The noise had gained a gurgling quality. As dark and elemental as the tone sounded, it shook with human error. Oh, that's just the people from my village saying goodbye to the sun. She had become animated suddenly, as if we were finally talking about something

she could relate to. Hey, do you know why people scream at the sun? What the hell are you talking about? I yelled past the growing noise. There was a screeching mania to the screams. It was as if whatever massive bodies that produced the sound was in wildly different emotional states. Sadness, anger, joy,

every possible palette of a scream mixed together into one horrid yell. And the girl didn't seem to find anything odd about that. She was no graphic designer. They're saying goodbye to the sun. The people from my village do it every sunset. I don't know why, but... This is some culty stuff. I am so out.

I couldn't contain my fear. The whales have gotten so loud that the goddamn trees were shaking. Whatever that screaming was, I wanted to get as far away from it as possible. But as I started to break out into a sprint, even with a deafening screams my ear, another voice cut through. Murder, Robert. You have to promote the band. Gustav used the end of his old cigarette to light up a new one.

He had just seen me talk to two girls at a bar without mentioning the Warriors of Perun. He wasn't happy. Without likes and shares, we are dead. You must promote every chance that you get. I froze. The world around me was shaking with a house of some demented ritual, but I had a duty to fill. Ah, pleasure meeting you.

If you want to hear more about my music, look up the worries of Perun on Spotify. Juck as a like on Facebook too. As soon as I got the words out of my mouth, I broke into a sprint. Gustav would have been proud. I don't know when I stopped hearing the screaming. The adrenaline was coursing through my veins with such fervour that the only thing I could hear clearly in my ears was my heartbeat. As frightened as I was, however,

I was still able to make my way back to the garland without a second thought. I have no sense of direction. I was just lucky. I went back to my room to meditate in hopes of breaking into some forest-inspired trance that would fill my head with poetic rhymes, but the echoes of the screams

cut through any semblance of calm that my mind would allow. All I could think about were the red, raw voice chords are the people that screamed at the setting sun. As discomforting as the idea was, there was something about it that reached out to me, something that begged to be explored.

I tried to deny its pull. I tried to think about anything other than a screaming, but I couldn't. Outside, occasional headlights would pierce to the impossible darkness of the forest. The unexplainable smell of fish wafted around the room as if it were the ghost of a misguided sailor. Below me, the drunk men sang. Oya Nika, do not go into the wood.

Some secrets are not to be understood. Oya Nika, they scream at the setting sun. If you hear them, just pull up your skirt and run. I froze. The moonshine-soaked crowd downstairs was singing about a village where everyone screams at the setting sun. The song was a solemn plea, a warning of a mysterious community

that did not mean well and was best left alone the message was simple stay away we had just finished playing a show in a bar where the walls were met with sweat and testosterone as soon as we got off the stage I just became another face in the crowd

of pearly beards but Thouian had developed a small harum of suitors see that's why people are so into incest porn she told her followers as they brought her more shots It's not that people want to sleep with their brothers and sisters, is that it's taboo. People always levitate towards things that are forbidden. Downstairs, the air was thick with a fog of smoke.

The black feather-tipped hats that the gawls wore were cocked at a drunken angle. The white shirt carried the signs of spillage and cigarette burns. A couple of hand axes, way too sharp to be at a drinking establishment, lay propped up against the bar. I ordered a shot of Palenka and kept my very very very very very. out of sight to fit in. The alcohols scratches the way down my throat

and started kindling a fire in my belly. I wanted to ask for a glass of water, but I asked for something else instead. I heard you guys were singing a song

about a village where people scream at the setting sun? Is that a real place? The balding partender with a dirty towel around his neck simply laughed

as he poured me another shot. Some questions are simply not meant to be asked. I tried to pry him for more information, but he wouldn't budge. Instead, he just kept on pouring me more shots of that devil water. I tried to talk to the other men in the pub to gain more information about the mysterious village that they sang about, but they all responded with the same words. Some questions are simply not meant to be asked.

Even my attempts to get them to perform the song about the village again fell flat. The chorus was less interested in singing about the Eldridge Mysteries that hid in the depths of the valleys, and more interested in singing about throwing cherry branches at unmarried girls. With each rejection came a shot. With each shot, my tongue became less cooperative in asking questions. I passed out as soon as I hit my bed, faint traces of stars shone through the treetops, but there were simply specks of dust in the all-encompassing darkness.

beneath my feet branches cracked like fresh snow I was lost in the dark and alone a light wind brushed through the silhouette of the trees I could not see I tried to focus on the snapping of twigs beneath my feet

to find some semblance of calm in the disorienting darkness through which I was travelling but my frantic mind did not allow for tranquility I wasn't the only one walking through the woods I stopped. The crackle of the forest path behind me didn't stop.

I was being followed. The blackness behind me shimmered. Outlines of trees and bushes slowly started to materialise from behind a dim, red light. A chorus of screams echoed through the woods. The shrubbery started to shake at the low tenor of the whales. I ran, turning the path beneath my feet into a staccato series of pops and crackles. but soon the screams that were following me overpowered my footsteps. The outline of the dark forest manifested in the crimson hue of the setting sun.

I tripped, a lightning bolt of pain seared its way up my leg. There was no escape from the chorus of screams. They walked on two legs, but that was the only human thing about them. The procession of dark figures moved steadily through the woods. Their horrid arms extended towards me, a maddening red light showing through the tips of their claws the closer they got

the more I felt the blistering heat stemming from their ghastly appendages from behind the blinding hot light I could see their milky white eyes somewhere in those shapeless forms dirted with specks of darkness was incomprehensible anger

they shuffled towards me through the wood I tried to yell for help but their deafening whales drowned at my screams Beats of sweat crawled down my forehead. My body refused to move. The screams of my throat got stuck and came out as wimpers. Whatever was happening wouldn't last long.

I knew I was about to die. The red tip claws was so close to my face I could smell my beard singeing. But suddenly, without a glint of warning, they disappeared. A dark mass of flesh leapt out of the face leapt out of the darkness at the mysterious creatures. The forest flickered with a bloody light

as a powerful force waged war with the monsters that meant me harm. The cold sweat that covered my body heated up under the boiling ache that washed through my skull. I woke up dazed and confused with a promise to never touch Belenka ever again. The hangover was rough and within minutes the sink of my room was filled up with stomach acids that tasted of rotten peaches.

Yet, as I splashed water on my face, trying to reacquate myself with reality, something became deathly clear. Out there in the woods was something that begged to be explored, a foreign force that demanded to have songs written about it. Out there in the woods was a village where people scream at the setting sun. And I was going to find it. My trip to Slovakia was a last-ditch effort to save the band. I had hoped that in the forest beneath the Tatra mountains, there would be some ethereal source of inspiration that would kickstart my creativity

to help me keep the Warriors of Perun together. I came out here looking for lyrics, but instead I found something else. Instead, I found the village where people scream at the setting sun. I love the band, being on stage with Doyan and Gustav is an indescribable feeling but as I lay here

curled up in the darkness searching for the slightest hint of a phone signal I can't help but wish I stayed at home do not go searching for the village where people scream at the setting sun some questions are not meant to be answered some mysteries demand to remain unexplained heed the warnings of the locals

and stick to the tourist friendly hiking trails If you do, some mouse stumble through the forest and end up in the village where every sunset is met with a harrowing screams of creatures beyond our comprehension Run Run for your life and hope that the slick skin monsters that dwell within the village Haven't noticed your presence yet

Whatever you do, don't make the same mistake I did Do not accept their invitation To supper Even though the tables downstairs were filled up with all sorts of smoked cheeses and crispy bacon, the whole lodge still smelled like a fish market. Having my nose assaulted by the stench of rotting sea, while being in the middle of a landlock country, didn't help my hangover. But the fatty food the Goral Inn was serving for breakfast definitely did. All of the lard and potatoes that made up traditional Slovakian cuisine

serve as a hefty counterbalance to the raw fire that is Slovakian liquor. By the time I had finished my second helping of bacon topped at Holoski Last night's drinking seemed like a distant memory I was an aspirin tablet away from becoming a regular human being As my headache started to clear the mystery of the enigmatic village hidden somewhere in those green valleys beckoned to me So milk the bartender turned waiter asked He still had the same dirty towel draped around his neck as he had the same dirty towel draped around his neck as he had had the night prior. But this time, instead of a bottle of Palenka, he was holding a jug filled

with frothy white liquid. For a split second, the lodge didn't smell like fish anymore. It smelled worse. My hangover tickled my stomach. No, thank you. I'll stick to coffee. His cheery eyes dimmed, as if me refusing to drink spoiled milk was an insult to his culture, rather than an attempt to spare my digestive system a horrible evening. But the longer he looked at me, the more I realized he wasn't unhappy about the milk. There was something else bothering him. You're the one who asked about the village last night,

he said. Yes, and you refused to answer my question, so I'm going to find out answers of my own. You're making a mistake, young man. Some questions are not meant to be answered, and some places are not meant to be answered. found. If you value the life that God has given you, stay away from that village. Nothing good will come of it. His warnings fell on deaf ears. Even as the remnants of the jagged hangover

bounced around my head, I knew one thing for certain. Finding that village would bring me a boon of poetry that would stop my ban from breaking up. I thank the man for his concern, but assured him that I knew what I was doing. After wiping up my place, with some bread and chugging down another cup of instant coffee I set out into the forest. The plan was simple. I would make my way towards the spot where I had met the strange girl. From there I would search the forest for the village. People didn't usually nap in forests unless they lived nearby and the screams of the villages were loud enough to suggest that the mysterious ritual couldn't have been taking place far off.

The forest was filled with blueberry bushes and, slabs of moss that were nearly identical to the ones that I had met the girl by, but my memories of seeing the forest shake with the force of the thunderous screams were vivid enough to help me walk with confidence. I wasn't worried about getting lost. Outside of the images that were scorched into my memory, there was another indicator that I could use to find a spot where I had witnessed the screaming. The phone signal. When I had left Prague, I promised myself I would only use my phone for note-taking. All of those messages and news updates and analytics on our social media profiles were sapping away and my creative potential while I was in Prague. I figured

that cutting them out while I was in the mountains would help me foster a calm mind that would eventually give birth to good lyrics. Yet, as I made my way through the forest, towards the spot where I could catch the slightest hint of a phone signal, I started to reconsider my ban on the outside world. The idea to leave Prague, came to me with such force that I completely neglected to tell anyone about my trip. Not answering anyone's messages for two weeks

would give me that air of an unreachable artist that I so craved, but the idea of something happening that required my immediate attention not being addressed for two weeks churned in my stomach. I would just check my text real quick. Maybe I'd look at the analytics as well, just in case the Warriors of Peron

had stumbled into the good graces of the algorithm and we had become famous overnight. If there were hundreds of new fans, I wanted to be there to like their comments and urge them to tell their friends about the band. I stood in the same spot where I had stood the day before and took up my phone.

One bar of service. My phone was reaching out to the world beyond the mountains. I took a big puff of my vape and waited for the flurry of notifications to come in. Nothing happened. I took another hit, filling the fresh mountain air with a scent of strawberry cheesecake. But by the time the silky smoke dissipated, nothing changed. I thumbed my way around every messaging app I had to make sure I was actually online.

I was. No one was messaging me. I scrolled my way over to the band's social media. Zero shares, zero likes, zero comments, zero play. Our music was streaming out under the World Wide Web, but no one was listening. We just finished another show. The past month worth of gigs had been pretty bad, but this one was an absolute disaster. We got on stage two hours later than we were meant to, on account of the Bucca getting into a fistfight.

High-pitched ways of feedback cut through every song like a dull knife, and halfway through our set, a shirtless man rushed the stage, stole my mum. microphone and sang a little ditty about how Epstein didn't kill himself. The crowd clapped for him. They didn't clap for us. The only people in the audience that engaged with our music were the guy rolling on Molly who screamed the wrong words during every chorus and a cheery-looking girl who sat at the back of the bar.

Anita Vascova I knew her from the occasional four in the morning music jams that I'd inevitably end up at whenever I was drinking. She was listening to the band in which I was the lead singer, but I don't think she noticed me. She kept her eyes closed. Anita was too busy beating out the heartbeat of the monstrous tune that Gustav was slamming out on his drum kit.

My head echoed with advice from meditation apps. I forced myself back into the present moment. I was standing in the middle of the forest, preparing myself for a journey into a mysterious village. I was doing something adventurous and daring for my art. There was no time for intrusive thoughts. I took another puff of my vape, hoping for the sweetness to wash out the memories of that awful night.

It didn't. My mouth filled with a dirty taste of burning cotton. The vape had run out of juice, and in my eagerness to go find the people who scream at the setting sun, I forgot to refill it. It might have been my realisation. that I might have to make do without my nicotine dispenser, but suddenly the forest felt much more oppressive.

The happy birds that chirped the afternoon away the day prior were replaced with the streaks of agitated crows that flew above me through the treetop. Thick clouds blotted out the sun. It was going to rain, and I couldn't ease my mind with nicotine. Yet, every creative journey requires the crossing of uncomfortable valleys, I knew that somewhere out there I could find inspiration.

After updating my status to tell people I was out in the woods being a poet, I put away my phone to set out deeper into the forest. I was starting to get cold in my t-shirt, but a warm, optimistic fire was burning in my belly. Going on a journey through the sickly green, really hung over, need my nicotine. Then, after 30 minutes of walking, I ended up back at the same blueberry bush, or at least I thought I did. That small sliver of phone signal that I had found there before was gone.

I figured that maybe it was a different brush, so I just kept on walking. But 15 minutes later, I was right back where I started. My poor sense of direction had finally caught up with me. I was lost in the woods. And out there, in the distant valleys, thunder, had started to rumble. The Mollyman had brought Thorn's affection with a baggie from his wallet.

The two of them were caught in a drug-fueled love's embrace a couple of steps from the bathroom. I was sitting at the bar, nursing a flat beer, trying to pretend I wasn't the guy who had nervously walked off stage an hour ago. The faces of everyone at the bar were downright hostile, and I kept on worrying someone was going to break a glass over my head, but I couldn't leave.

As soon as we finished playing, Anita immediately snared Gustav into a conversation. The two just kept on going at it, excitedly talking about something that was muffled out by the drunkenness of the bar. Gustav barely helped us packing up the gear, and by the time Therian met a new friend, I was alone for the job. The whole way through, Gustav and Anita chatted away at the bar. I sat there, watching them, trying not to be obvious. There was some hope in me that maybe the two were just trying to sleep together but it faded with every minute of their animated conversation

This wasn't the talk of two people trying to bang This was the passionate exchange of two artists deciding to have a baby It started to rain At first the raindrops were negligible They even felt good on my sticky hung over skin But by the time I reached the same blueberry bush For the third time the water came down in heavy, cold chunks.

The valley echoed with thunder. I could do the crackling of lightning in the distance. Memories of VCRs from the 90s teaching me about thunderstorm safety reeled through my head. I wasn't meant to stand under a tree. Easier said than done in a forest. Out of habit, I took a deep hit of my vape. My mouth and throat got punched

by another wave of burnt cotton. I had no water. to wash out the taste. I was lost in the forest during a thunderstorm, out of supplies, and massively hung over. Despair started to climb at the back of my throat,

but I did my best to recall every single motivational post I'd ever seen on Reddit. This was all part of the process. I was the master of my own destiny. This situation could be controlled. It was raining

and I had a bad taste in my mouth. I stuck out my tongue and let the fresh water cleanse me of my mistakes. Thunder in the sky and I'm drinking rain. Lost in the woods like a... Damn. Hail. Shards of ice came down like an artillery barrage. I tried to hide under a tree, but a crackling thunder clap scared me off.

She took out a pair of headphones. She was playing her stuff and music. My pair of arms sustained most of the pelt, but I could feel the hail growing harder, growing bigger. His eyes were closed. He was tapping the table. More thunder, more hail, more rain, more pain. They were going to run away together.

Gustav and Anita were going to start their own band. I got down onto the forest dirt and curled myself into a ball. This was the end of the Warriors of Perun. I screamed. It came out to me like a wave of projectile vomit. My voice cords burned raw. My nails dug into my hands. Something that had been festering in me for a long time was clawing its way out.

The moment stretched into eternity. Me, a searing, screaming pain, travelling through my body in the darkness of my shut eyes. I don't know how long I howled in the forest, but by the time my voice had given up, I was back on my feet. The rain was gone. Birds were chirping off at the distance. I opened my eyes.

Hello? I fell down into the slush of mud and sticks. In front of me stood a little boy dressed in steamboat suspenders. He looked just like any other eight-year-old boy you'd find in a Slovakian Sunday church crowd with one exception. Across his forehead, barely covered by his blonde locks, there was a dark, green festering wound. It looked like a hoof print. Sop, I whispered in shock. My name is Samko. What's your name?

He asked with a pep of a chocolate milk commercial. Robert. I tried not to look at that horrible scar, but I couldn't help myself. Hello, Robert. You look quite lost and may be hungry, yes? You look hungry. My family's about to have supper and we own a map. Maybe you would like to join us?

Severe head trauma aside, the kids offered our food and a way back home sounded heavenly. Maybe it was some sort of sign. Maybe this little helpful kid was sent out for the cosmos to help me get back home. Maybe the experience in the thunderstorm could weave itself into a song and I'd managed to keep the band alive for just a little longer. I was about to accept his invitation, but then another thought struck me.

Yes, the kid was definitely a sign, but maybe he was there to get me further from home and closer to that Eldridge's well of inspiration I was searching for. Samko, do you know anything about the village where people scream at the setting sun? Ha, no, he said. But I do know about having you over for supper and making sure you don't die in the woods. The kid made a strong argument.

I got up and agreed to come over for supper. He grabbed my hand as if I was the child and led me through the forest to a meadow. His hands were freakishly soft. Little boy's soft hand, his scar I don't understand. But maybe he'll help me save the band. As we walked through the meadow, and hot afternoon sun dried my clothes. Not a single cloud in the sky.

It was as if there never was a storm at all. The heavens were starting to turn a calm shade of orange as the brightest star travelled east. Everything was going to be fine. Yet, I couldn't take my eyes off the kid's scar. There was something so odd about the dark green hue of the wound. The mark looked bad. Hell, it looked fatal.

But Samco moved with the confidence of a toddler who had never scraped his knee. I needed to know. Hey, uh, Samko, the scar you have in your forehead. How'd you get that? The kid shot me a wide smile. It was then that I realized

that he was missing a couple of his front teeth. One of the neighbours' cows went loose, Samco said Does it hurt? I heard myself ask Not anymore He replied Ah look we're here

The village was just like any other village You would find in Slovakia Groups of small wooden cottages Lined a single rural road Fields and barns and vegetable gardens Stend out from the humble community Out towards the Dark Forest The place was peaceful

someone was sharpening a scythe. A quiet song flowed out from one of the cottage windows. A general feeling of tranquility hung around the whole settlement. Yet, when Samko and me passed by one of the barns that sat on the edge of the village, a cry of panic echoed to the valley. Whatever livestock was inside of that rickety structure was seized with a sudden, indescribable terror. Do you like animals, Robert? Samco asked casually.

He was barely audible over the shrieking of the pigs. Uh, sure. You still have a dog. Good. He smiled, his incomplete grin. Animals don't like me very much. It makes living on a farm difficult. Maybe he can help me feed the chickens.

Oh, there's my dad. He was a mountain of a man. Even past the drab suit. you could see the body of someone who'd worked the land his entire life. A jagged scar of dark jade lying the right side of his face as if someone had knocked off a piece of the man's jaw. Papa, I found a man in the woods. I've invited him over for supper.

Samko's father's eyes betrayed no emotion. He simply grunted, turned around and walked over to the chicken coop that was attached to the woodshed in the yard. The bird seemed to be anxious at his approach and the closer he got, the more they let their anxiety be known. The chicken that Samko's father pulled out of the coop that out sound so shrill I had to cover my ears. The man in the suit had no compassion for the writhing bird.

He carried a live animal as if it was a lifeless log of wood across the yard, pressed it in my arms and took a step back and watched. His tiny heart beat against my fingers, its beady eyes searched for a means of escape, But the chicken had calmed. I held the terrified bird in my hands as the man in the grey suit silently judged me. He likes animals, Samka whispered. The man smiled.

His teeth were as sparse as his sons. I can see that. Welcome to our humble village stranger. Put away the bird and come taste the woman's cooking. She was the only member of the family that didn't have obvious scars in her face. But what she liked in gruesomeness, she made up for in the general unease she inspired. I couldn't quite put my finger on it, but there was something wrong with her. As I watched her transfer the bowls of sowcrowt and potatoes from the stove to the table,

I searched the face for the source of the discomfort that I was feeling. She prepared the table in complete silence and moved to the sluggish steps of a lobotomy patient, but there was something else off about her. Her eyes. You wouldn't notice it at first, but the more I looked at the pupils, the more I noticed the fading, milky quality behind them. You are so lucky Samco has found you. Not everyone is as fortunate as you are. Misguided hikers disappear in this valley all the time.

The man in the suit had become more amicable after the chicken incident. He was all gapped smiles now. Verona, get the man a glass of milk So that he can enjoy his dinner properly Without a word The woman got up from the table Went to the other room And emerged with a glass of sour milk

The hangover that I'd forgotten Made itself known as I saw the drink Could I possibly ask for a glass of water I'm not a sour milk type of guy The man's eyes grew cold But then, as if he had caught a glimpse of his own stony expression, he smiled again. Of course, of course.

What sort of host would I be if I couldn't bring water to a thirsty guest? He got up and walked to the other room. His wife and child sat in silence with tight-lipped smiles in their faces. Here, a glass of water. He bellowed with a good cheer as he emerged from the other room.

Drink up, enjoy the food and get ready for a good, long rest. It is dangerous. to travel through these woods after sundown, but come morning, we will take you back home so that you can sing praises of our hospitality. I took the glass of water and raised it to my lips. I watched Theon study the contents of a glass

as if she was a detective trying to solve a murder case. The owner at the bar had given us complimentary Cuba Libres to ease the sting of the cancelled show. The audience was nonexistent and our drummer had bailed last minute because he was busy. I sipped on my charity, but Thurian kept on studying hers.

Something wrong? I asked. Check in for powder. A gal could never be too careful, she replied. All sorts of creepy dudes out there. It was passing through, a glimpse of irrelevant memory, but it still pulled my eyes

towards the top of the drink. I froze. Remnants of white dust floated on the surface of the water. There were small chunks of crust of pills resting at the bottom on my glass. I hate to be rude, I said, trying to stop my voice from shaking. But before I eat, I always like to take a couple of pots from my pipe. Would you mind if I popped outside for a quick second?

His scarred face turned to cold stone. If he made an effort to hide behind a smile, it wasn't a good one. Of course. the man in the grey suit hissed through his remaining teeth. Just make sure you don't stay out too long. Wouldn't want the food to go cold. Another helping of burnt cotton, I was too stupid to anticipate. I did my best to hold back my coughs as I peered behind the window and watched the family.

They just sat there, completely void of emotion, waiting for me to come back. They were waiting to drug me. I knew I couldn't go back to that house. Whatever charade we were playing was already wearing thin, but I also knew that I couldn't go back and mindlessly trudged to the forest. I barely made it out during the daytime. Trying to find my way back to the Goral Inn under the cover of darkness would be the end of me. I sat there, crouched behind the cottage window,

stuck in the same loop of indecisiveness that had plagued me so many times before during more trivial parts of my life. Was I going to risk my life out in the woods or let myself be drugged by the strange, scarred family? I desperately hoped that a stroke of genius would produce an infallible plan for me to survive the night. But, before my lackluster intellect could come up with an escape route, I was spurred into improvisation. Samko's chair creaked as he pushed himself away from the table. He walked out of the dining room. The front door opened.

Robert! My lizard brain took control. I dug past the window and hid in the woodshed. Curled up among the darkness of the logs, I hoped that Samco would just get hungry and go back inside. But he didn't. Robert! His childish voice was getting closer.

A flurry of chuckling anxiety exploded out of the chicken coop as his footsteps squished through the mud. luckily the birds quieted down Samco had walked past the woodshed and out towards the forest Robert His voice stung with the sadness of a child Who had just been abandoned by his only playmate I watched Samco through a gap in the woodshed

And for a split second I wondered whether I was overreacting The kid didn't look dangerous He looked lonely As he stood alone beneath the slowly reddening sky, an ember of empathy started up in the back of my throat. It was quickly snuffed out.

Robert! He yelled my name again, but this time his voice was draped in a tenor that sounded nothing like a child. The sound that came from his mouth echoed with a dangerous, inhuman energy. Robert! There was a growing frustration behind his calls.

Robert! Samcoe stumped his little feet and let out a cry so dark, so savage, so deafening that it seemed as if the whole universe had shifted on his axis. Sordas rained down on me from the ceiling of the woodshed as I watched the little boy's true form reveal itself. Bits of flesh peeled themselves from the back of his head like wet wallpaper. His pale skin hung out from behind his steamboat suspenders

like straw and a poorly made scarecrow. Beneath his human shell, Samco was covering in slick, jet-black scales. The chickens became anxious again. The muddy backyard sounded off with another set of footsteps, heavier footsteps. The man in the grey suit lumbered his way next to his son and looked out toward the forest.

Robert! Robert! He screamed in the same infernal tone. A piece of skin popped off from his bulging neck. The dark scales that rested under his flesh throbbed with a primal rage. Robert! The man in the suit howled out into the woods again. No Robert emerged.

Samko's father let out a low, angry hiss, and then pelted his son across the back of his head. As soon as his mammoth hand delivered the blow, its skin rumbled up and slid off like a moist glove. Beneath the skin of his human hands, Samco's father had been hiding dark claws. At the edge of each of his razor-sharp fingers, there was a bright light that shined

with the colour of the setting sun. Samco's father wrapped his Eldridge appendage around his son's shoulder and led him out toward the edge of the wood. Soon, other villagers emerged and joined the misshaping father and sun in the clearing. Soon,

I realized that I was in the village where people scream at the setting sun. The roaring screams that I had heard the day prior were nothing compared to the earth-shaking force of seeing the ritual up close. The universe shook at its core. It threatened to crack beneath the sheer volume of the deafening yells that the villagers let loose at the reddening sky. When it was all over, when the world outside was plunged into darkness,

and those ghastly howls, had finally ceased, I was happy to be alive. I thought it was all over. I thought that all I had to do was hide out in the woodshed until daybreak, and then run as fast and as far as I could, with a promise never to return to this horrid place again. Then the lights appeared. Bobbing bulbs of crimson danced in the darkness like burning fireflies.

They were moving back towards the village. towards my woodshed. They moved with a single rally and cry. Robert! They were looking for me. This whole trip had been a horrible mistake. I hoped to come to Slovakia to find a source of inspiration

to keep the warriors of Peron afloat. But I don't think I'll be writing any songs about this trip. I don't think I'll be writing any songs ever again. I don't think I'll make it through the night. The chickens are growing more agitated by the minute. The horrible creatures that are calling my name are getting closer. Those red, glowing orbs that float through the darkness like sluggish fireworks keep on getting brighter. It's just a matter of time until they find me.

If I somehow manage to find a sliver of signal, a tiny bit of internet for me to get out my last words before the creatures who scream at the setting sun tear me apart with their bright-tipped claws. Please pass on my final words. Tell Gustav that my dying wish was for him not to start a band with Anita Vascova. I was in the middle of a dark forest. My leg was darkened as well and I had no idea how I'd be getting back to the Gorill Inn. But at least I was alive.

I was alive in getting further from the village where people scream at the setting sun. The blood-red glare that ebbed and flowed from the barn where my four-legged friends were fighting the bright-clawed creatures was a distant memory once I was deep enough in the woods. The only thing that shone for me were the faint suggestions of stars obscured by the treetops. But I could still hear the echoes of battle.

The sound of slaughter bounced around the valleys as a constant reminder that I was not safe. The livestock wouldn't hold off the villagers forever. Eventually they would come looking for me. The only hope that I had was that by the time the

and feathers settled, I would be far enough to no longer be worth pursuing. It was difficult to be optimistic about my prospects of making it through the black forest with nothing but a flashlight. The throbbing pain that was spreading through the place where the creature had stabbed me didn't help. Neither did the shivering mountain wind that was drifting past my blood-stained t-shirt. But I knew that if I was to survive, I couldn't think about those things. I had to think about getting back home, about Prague, about the warrens, about the warrens,

of Perun. Me and Anita sat down on a bench outside of the bar at around 3am for a single cigarette. We barely knew each other. It was just meant to be a bit of small talk between two musicians. The whole conversation wasn't destined to last longer than 15 minutes, but it lasted much longer. Our talk bounced through our personal histories, a shared love of music, the guilty pleasure shows that we would watch. We talked about anything and everything as the The sun crawled onto the sky from behind the Prague Castle and the grumpy morning commuters filled the streets. We smoked her entire pack of luckies. Once those were done, we got another pack and a small bottle of whiskey.

We basically had an extended after-party on the city bench, and just like any after-party, it was difficult to leave. There was just something about her that I couldn't leave behind, even though I knew I had responsibilities to attend to in the morning. responsibilities that I cared about. I just stayed, glued to that bench. Talking to Anita was a cathartic experience. Even though the two of us had only known each other for a handful of hours, those hours oozed with genuine connection. The thrill of being on stage,

a religious experience of standing in front of complete strangers and making them bob their heads with nothing but some lifeless strings and my vocal cords. Verbalizing those ideas felt horribly pompous, in front of anyone else. But with Anita, my passion flowed with a confidence I didn't know I had. Suddenly, all of my neuroticism had morphed itself into an enjoyable personality quirk. She liked me.

When we hugged goodbye in the glaring morning sun, I thought I was in love. My infatuation lasted for about a week. When I messaged her about how well our first gig went, she sent me a big, blue thumbs up. A big blue thumbs up was the response she gave to all of my messages. There was a, I'm doing great, how about you?

Thrown in there from time to time, but the subtext was pretty clear. I tried to convince myself she just wasn't much of a texter, that she was just really busy and that one day we would be back to talking until sundown, but that delusion didn't last long.

The completely random meets in jam sessions I had so diligently planned were filled with five-word conversations and excuses to go to the bathroom. That's just the type of person Anita was. A social butterfly that would fly through Prague's indie scene, make heavy, intimate connections with lonely musicians, and then let go of the dead weight when it stopped being useful. I didn't have what she was looking for.

But you know who did? Gustav. Months later, as I sat at the bar nursing a flat beer, Watching the two of them passionately talk about music projects, I knew Gustav had what she was looking for. The two of them would run away and start their own band. The worries of Peron would. I forced myself back into the present moment.

Even though my fear for the band splitting up had managed to distract me from the fact that I was being hunted by sharp-clothed monstrosities that screamed at the setting sun, the thoughts of Gustav and Anita running away together caused me enough discomfort to want to remind myself that there were more pressing shards of stress for my mind to lean on. As I walked and worried,

the sounds of slaughter echoing through the woods died down. For a split second, I thought I could hear the creatures calling my name again, but I pushed that thought out of my head. I couldn't see the outcome of the battle, but I had to hope for the best. I had to hope the animals of the barn had won the battle for my freedom

and that the villagers were no longer a threat. Even though I believed that the only danger I was in was the danger of dying stranded in the woods, I turned off my flashlight. I had been walking through the darkness for long enough to get used to the topography of the forest floor. My feet made their way through the night and even though my shin felt painfully bloated

and my body was cold and hungry and unusual confidence started to brew in my belly. My trip to Slovakia, had been a last-ditch effort to save the band. I churned out into the woods to find something that would inspire me to write more songs so that the Warriors of Perun would have some fresh material to perform

and the trip had been a success. I didn't have the songs written yet, but I had more than enough material. The strange girl lying in a bed of moss, the horrible storm I was caught in, the battle between the livestock and the villagers, the village where the people scream at the setting sun. Those stories, those moments, those mysterious slices of life from a cryptic, mystifying land that few had seen would be my muse.

I would put together an album filled with terrifying mystery. The Warriors of Perun would be back on stage in no time. The tweaks beneath my feet crackled with a devoted rhythm. The forest was given me my marching orders. I would make it back to the Garland if I just kept my pace, if I just didn't give up. Even though it was still dark, birds started to chirp in the treetops. They sang songs of a happier tomorrow. The sky was still black, but the stars started to fade.

Soon it would be morning. Soon I would be back inside of the lodge that smelled a fish. Robert, say tre bien, Gustav would say after reading the lyrics. Yeah, dude, this is some pretty dope writing, man, Thouyon would add Hon Hon Sacco Blur And to think I wanted to leave the band I know right

We were both so dumb We're very sorry Robert They would say And I would forgive them I would forgive them Because we all make mistakes But mistakes are temporary The Warriors of Perun are forever

I pass by a familiar Looking berry bush My heart skipped a beat Something rumbled off in the distance, something that sounded like a truck carrying Polish frozen goods. The crackling of the sticks started to pick up its tempo. The birds were singing praises of my return. I was in the final stretch for my journey. Even though each step I took with my right foot sent pins and needles at my leg, even though I was beyond exhausted and cold, I found myself

running. Out of the darkness, I saw the outline of the second berry bush. I was close. I was so goddamn close. Somewhere in one of the non-descript dungeon bars in Prague beneath the crumbling ceilings and off-peed paintings of aristocrats holding dogs a crowd would gather.

The place would be packed. They would barely see each other beneath the dim glow of the makeshift light fixtures. But the faces of the people standing next of them wouldn't matter. Anonymity was a part of the appeal. As strangers, they could all let go of their earth

their worries and focus on what was truly important. They could focus on the people that were standing on the stage. Dalyan would be fiddling with a mandolin, letting loose potent earworms that would stick with the audience for months. She would make it look easy, as if anyone could just pick up her instrument and casually create eternal melodies. But the audience would be smart enough to know that it wasn't that easy. The audience would know she was just that good.

Gustav would be sitting on his drum set, puffing on a cigarette without a care in the world. Chances are smoking indoors would not be allowed in that particular bar, and chances are that someone from the staff would be thinking about asking him to stop. But if they would ever try to confront him about his smoking, Gustav would balance the cigarette in his mouth and let out a beat so savage that the staff would reconsider adhering to the rules. To impede an artist of his tenor would be a bigger crime. And then, I would be a bigger crime.

get on stage. The crowd would fall into a hushed, electric silence as I would walk over to the microphone. Ladies, gentlemen, everything in between and beyond, I would yell, putting on the skin of someone who didn't worry about things. The Warriors of Perun are back. A deafening internal scream of joy manifested itself as an audible, happy yelp. I recognized that berry bush. I recognized that slab of moss. This was where I met the strange girl who initiated my journey to find the village. Another rumble in the distance. Another Polish truck.

Civilisation was near. I let out another yelp, louder this time. I was just a couple of minutes away from the girl in. Soon I would be eating, drinking. Hell, I'd even snag a cigarette and a shot of Polenka to celebrate the occasion. For a split second, I was happier than I'd ever. been. Then, as I moved past the invisible pocket of signal that connected me to the outside world, my phone dinged. Without thinking, I checked my messages. A freezing, tragic shudder travelled down my spine.

I sat down on the bed of moss to cushion the emotional blow, but it didn't help. I read the message a dozen times, hoping that somehow what was written in it would change. It didn't. Thorian to Warriors of Prun group chat Hey Robert Wish we could talk about this in person But I guess it's better to just rip the band-aid off Me and Gustav have been talking And we both think it's for the best

The Warriors rest in peace Gustav is starting a new creative project with Anita And I want to take a stab at going solo for a couple of months I think we should all do our own thing for a bit I'll be having a nice time in the woods Gustav's addition to the conversation was what truly broke my heart He didn't say a word.

He just left a big, blue thumbs up. I leaned back on the bed of moss and let the sorrow wash over me. The Warriors of Perun, my baby, the creative project that I have hitched every moment of my life to for the past two years, was dead, murdered without me even being able to properly say goodbye. I wanted to punch them both in the eye. I wanted to beg them both to give the band another chance.

I wanted to scream and weep and break stuff. But instead, I spread out like a corpse on the bed of moss and watched the star shimmer through the treetop. I lay there trying to adjust to a new reality where the promise of being on stage with my bandmates was a lie. And somehow, I did. If you would have told me a week ago that my band would break up with me through text message

and that it would only take me a couple of minutes to go from being a catatonic mess to accepting the loss, I would have laughed in your face, or probably cried in your face, granted that you would describe the greatest tragedy my mind could imagine. But the woods taught me that sometimes

pain is a part of the process, and sometimes you must shed parts of ourselves to move on. The woods have told me that there are much worse things out there than losing your band. Don't get me wrong, I was still sad, but being bandless was not the cataclysmic emotion

that I had anticipated. It was just like a good TV show going off of air or a six-month break-up. I was going to be all right. I was going to do my own thing like Thuyian had suggested. I listened to the rumbling of the passing polished trucks in the distance

as my mind searched for a path towards solo stardom. I had the inspiration. Now all I needed was a name. It wouldn't come right away, but eventually I would settle on something that would really capture my soul, a name that would get Spotify plays any day of the week.

I let my mind sizzle with the possibilities. That's when I realized that it wasn't polished trucks that were rumbling in the distance. Robert! The sound was faint, deniable even, but the louder it got,

the more certain I became. Robert! Damn. Robert! The trees lit up in the blood-red glow I had learned of fear. The bobbing lights moved towards me like a speeding train. The chorus of screams were sprinting towards me. Their claws held out in front of them like careless children with scissors.

I jumped up from the bed of moss and ran. My feet tore through the mud, each bounced in my step, sending a flurry of pain up my right leg. Shrobes whizzed past me as I dashed in the general direction of the gall inn. Every fibre of my being was focused on me getting away. I was a man with a dream. A dream that could only be realised if every muscle on my body would do whatever it could to get me away. The screaming chorus was drowned out

with the adrenaline-laced blood gushing through my veins. My eyes were closed, trying to muster up every ounce of energy out of the depth of my soul. My dumbass tripped. I hid the ground like a sack of bricks. My right leg scraped up against the rock and started to wooze. I didn't realize how bloated it was until I was lying there in the mud.

It fizzled out of whatever horrible liquid had been gathering in the wound, and then descended into complete numbness. There was no way I was getting up. The bushes and trees edged themselves into detail under the hue of the red glow. Those sun-worshipping beasts sprung at me with their claws burning through the twilight. Robert The thought came quick Even with a short calming acceptance

I wasn't going to make it out I was going to die Or worse End up as some puppet for an unfathomable star god Either way I would never get to make music again But at least I had one night of being true Thanita

At least I got to share the stage with some talented people but at least the warriors of Perun got to sing once I closed my eyes and hoped that whatever was coming would be quick it wasn't it never came I opened my eyes the chaos of battle raged on in front of me something some mammoth force was tearing its way through the villages in the slowly brightening night it was difficult to figure out what was happening all I could see was that the creature that leaped out and my clawed besieuited

was a massive chunk of muscle, and it had horns. I did my best to crawl away from the melee, but I couldn't spare myself the sound of it. Gurgles and snaps and cracks filled the air as the creature behind me stond its hooves in the villages it had knocked down and gored the ones that was standing. Then another sound cut through the fight. I looked behind me.

It was just a simple glimpse. A momentary acknowledgement of my existence, before she tore her horns out of the neck of one of the slick-skinned monsters. But I could recognise those lava-lambis anywhere. Olga? I yelled, as if I had known the cow my whole life. She continued her slaughter. There were six of the monsters that had tracked me down in the forest, but you wouldn't know that by the time Olga was done with them.

She made what I did to Samko look like a friendly tap on the head. I stayed and watched as she murmured. murdered in the rising sun, partially because my body was exhausted, and I couldn't pull myself any further through the pine cone covered mud, and partially because I couldn't look away. The beast was covered in sharp, scratched wounds, both old and new, but she moved with the grace of a bovine ballet dancer. Each crushing stomp was perfectly timed, no slas remain unanswered by her horns. She continued her killing dance until well after the creatures had stopped showing any signs of resistance or life.

When she was finally done, when the only sound that could be heard were a pain breathing, she lumbered over to me. Thank you for saving my life, I whispered, hoping that her hooves would steer clear of my skull. She assured me with a gentle lick and then grabbed me by the scruff of my t-shirt. Olga helped me get back to the Gorill Inn.

Every Tuesday, I go over to the Messieric University, clinic to get my leg drained. I'm in there often enough to know all the receptionists by name. The doctors say that it's some sort of nasty infection that just won't go away. But I have my doubts. At first, I fear that the swelling would spread, that I would wake up one morning with claws tearing their way through my fingers, or with a sudden need to scream at the sun.

But nothing like that has happened. Getting those horrible syringes under my skin every Tuesday has become a minor inconvenience. It's just another price I had to pay in order to find my muses. After I came back from Savacia, I went back to making music. I'm still making music, in fact.

This time around, though, I tried to communicate with the muses without asking questions that are not meant to be asked. One experience with a forbidden community that almost stole my soul is quite enough for me. You've probably never heard of my new band,

but you've probably never heard of the Warriors of Brun before listening to my story. So, I guess things are just about even. We play our shows and we get along, but sometimes, when the three in the morning jams get a bit drunker than they should, I still miss the Warriors. And, as for what happened to the cow? Honestly, I have no idea. She was with me all the way until we got to the Gaul Inn.

But as soon as she saw that I was safe, she gave me one last last last time. flick and went off on her own path. The last that I saw of Olga, she was walking down the breakdown lane towards the town of Dolny Kravny, confusing Polish truck drivers. I've been to the village where they worshipped the sun.

They almost had me. I couldn't run. But baby Olga, it's got to be fate. After tonight, I'll never eat steak.