rangers west

Portland Gothic

- “True Oregonians don’t use umbrellas,” the locals scoff. They must soak in the blood of the fallen gods whose demise have shaped the region, it is a controlled toxin needed for survival.

- “So the state drink must be beer, right?” You ask quite casually.
The bar goes silent, and the patrons nervously glance at one another. A low mooing comes from the backroom. The bartender starts to sweat then softly cry as the door creaks open, unleashing the smell of warm grass and cow shit.

- You ask your barista what they like to do in their free time, “Oh I’m in a band with some friends. I play the marimba, Stacy can sing with the souls of the damned, and Dave’s gotten pretty good with his 5,000 year old tibetan flute. It screams a bit if he blows too hard though.”

- Forest Park is a black mass coating a section of the west hills, rangers warn people away. At night some say you can see lights. Two people have already been lost.