The Last Stag

A cracked desert lot, slick with ruin – antlers cast shadows like bones on the asphalt, ghost-light creeping from the diner behind. The reindeer staggers, stitched from oil and rust, as engines groan through the drowning night.

The red car waits, half-buried in grime, chrome teeth grinning through the haze. Somewhere inside, whiskey-soaked laughter spills, the radio spits static sermons for the damned.

It’s all there – the collapse of innocence, the final parade, hoofprints leading nowhere, while neon bleeds on concrete veins.

And above it all, the moon turns its back.