The Well Is Dry Of Everything Except Cholera

The band’s on tour together for the first time in a while, but don’t call it a comeback. “Gone?” wonders Pestilence, doomscrolling through their hashtag. “Where would we have gone?”

“I think it’s more that we fell out of style there for a bit, darling,” says Famine, who does always keep an eye on the fashion news and is generally au courant. “Not that we literally left.”

“Been doing just fine on my own,” says War, not bothering to turn their head from the window. There’s nothing out there but gentle hills and empty fields, but War likes watching the irrigation sprayers rolling around on their enormous wheels. “Not packing them in the way we used to, mebbe, but it’s steady work. Lotta fans where it matters.”

Wry laughter from Pestilence. “Big in Japan, ha. Hasselhoff was crushing it in Germany, once. I think I read that.”

“That hack.” Famine hates Hasselhoff, has for years. “What would he know of art? Just a lousy jobber with pretensions.”

“Aren’t we all,” says the pale driver.