BETWEEN FOUR JUNCTIONS

started to hit him; he let the guitars carry him away into the morning drive. By the time Ian Curtis’s vocals hit his ear he’d already adapted to the rhythm of it all.

The ranch was a large sprawling mass of infertile land and emasculated men. Upon its gate it bore a large C – a declaration to all of whose birthright these dry fields and savage dogs were. One needed only look at the fear in their eyes so desperately masked by attempted glares to see that some ungodly entity of a man had drained all that bile and courage and taken it for himself. As he slid into the driveway the sounds and smells of an authentic American ranch hit Sharp. He was used to the sort of stink one was violated by in New York but, outside a few spells at his uncle’s manor as a youth, Spark rarely visited the country.

“Might want to shut that off.”

The man in the back pulled down his aviators and gave him an oddly stern look. Spark obliged. He only needed to look at the men who surrounded the great old house in front of him to realise that they most likely didn’t share his tastes. As he and his partners got out, he was greeted by the warm gaze of a man of around thirty-seven years of age. He wore a large moustache and a few scars. His tall body was wrapped in a brown jumper that covered a lightly stained shirt and, in his hands, he held a mug of coffee as if it were some sort of religious symbol. On the ceramic were inscribed the words ‘World’s Best Dad.’

He took a look at the trio before him. A tall black man in a tassel-covered jacket, a slightly shorter and slender figure robed in a floral shirt, a pinstripe suit with a tie resembling a sixties album cover, and a woman dressed in a coat and a scarf, her hair a mess that once resembled a bob and her eyes sunken both by the bags under them and excessive eye shadow.

“You Donny’s boys?” He let out an expression as he spoke, a cross between a smile a smirk and a scowl. It was the sort one saw from a passive-aggressive aunt or a particularly bitter divorced uncle.

“That we are,” Spark responded with a toothy grin; he too felt a need to display an expression that evoked feelings of irritation upon those who observed it.

“Come on in. My boys’ll give your car a quick search if that’s all okay.”

Spark got the distinct sense that he wasn’t the sort of man who you say no too.

“It’s fine. All I’ve got is some old pulp stories and cassettes.”

“Got any Elvis?”

Spark rubbed his chin. “Don’t think so. Mainly mixtapes.”

There was an immense disappointment in the man’s face. As if someone had just pissed on his flag. “Damn shame. Every hot-blooded American man should own some Elvis.”