'Downpour' - Official release March 24th, 2022
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Music by Clark Thompson
Artwork by Clark Thompson
Narrative by Alix Scarlatos
Mixed by Clark Thompson
Mastered by Michael McCluskey @ ZeroHour Studios
Narrative:
He’s sitting in his idling car outside of Extra Life, his childhood favorite arcade, when he first hears it...
It’s late. Almost 3 in the morning. The dilapidated stripmall before him is dark with greasy silence, the beginnings of rain glinting off the pavement. The only signs of life come from the forgotten neon signage in the neighboring window of Sol FM’s headquarters, and the chugging of his ‘85 Pantera. With an elbow out the driver’s side, the cool air seems to chill further with every white puff of car exhaust. He opens his mouth and watches his breath coalesce into the clouds, which seem tethered to the ground below. They linger around the car, like ghosts. As he rests his forehead in his hand, he thinks of livelier times. He thinks of the last bell at Lakeside High, and rushing down Phoenix Boulevard among a mob of kids on bikes. He thinks of all the ice cream trips to Nucky’s on the corner, which had long since been turned into a failing travel agency. He thinks of the awe he felt stepping into the purple world of Extra Life on its opening day, and the yells from the manager every time kids brought double-fudge cones around the new BetaCast machines. He digs his nails in at the impossibility of reliving.
Then, an abrasive wave of static jumps him. It’s not apparent, at first, whether the noise is the wind and the rain or something sinister. Through the window, he turns his palm toward the night sky and only feels the pin-pricklings of drizzle. He checks the car radio knobs, but they’re all turned toward OFF. But his eyes then catch on a peculiar blue light washing across the puddles in front of Sol FM. The blue is warm and pulsates, like a beating heart. He follows the drift of his eyes through the window and into the hungry darkness of the station headquarters. From its depths, another blue warmth flickers fire-like against the linoleum tiles. And so he steps out of his gleaming Pantera and gives it a loving tap on the hood before making his way over. He has nothing to lose.
Moving closer, the static crackles painfully louder. In a far corner, under shadows, he makes out a shape emitting light as a television set does from the floor of a living room at midnight. But it’s not a television set. It’s a large, metallic transmitter, and all of its knobs and lights and digits and gauges are gesturing wildly, as he watches with jaw open from the other side. Its little indicator lights blink blue, then red, and then green, like an S.O.S. He remains frozen in both fear and fascination. His forehead is now tight against the glass, and he shields his eyes from the outside world with two cupped hands. The static begins to chop and squeal until it sounds almost human. He hears it now. It’s a voice.
“...J…It’s me…J…”
He puts an ear up to the glass though the static is so loud his head pounds and his eyes throb like he’s been staring into the sun.
“...J…Listen…It’s…you…”
The glass of the window pops, just far enough from his eyes, just deep enough to punch through, if necessary. The neon signage buzzes above his head in anticipation.
“...You’re in danger…J…”
As he turns to assess the outside world of the empty lot once more, the beginning drizzles of rain become a downpour. He rolls up a leather sleeve and winds his fist...
