Unfiltered lightrays burn through the thick martian pipe smoke at the Postbeat saloon. Mr. D can barely see from all the Neptunian moonshine he's been sinking, but the old honkytonk doesn't seem to mind and besides..... no-ones listening anyway. The only stranger left with a braincell still firing is Pad the Strat who sits in a shady corner trying to make sense of the situation. He had parked his space cruiser on the roof, hoping to catch a deal with some local Riftgangsters, but when he got in everyone was dead.... everyone that is, except for Old Beasley and whatever was left of Mr. D. Those goddam Postbeat Songsharks had already cleared the place out. He sighed. It was becoming apparent that Old Beasley was shaping up for another vengeful lament, and as there was no chance of a lucky break left on the whole damn planet, he unpacked his tropical rhythm strings and settled back in to the groove. If you cant Postbeat 'em, Postjoin 'em.
Much love to you HiveBeez
Basil x x