Weld booth after the bell

Bell rang and nobody moved like free people for a full breath — that pause where overtime still owns your boots. Then the booth curtain twitched and the word stopped being payroll language. Overtime Romance isn't poetry. It's sparks on a visor and a laugh you weren't supposed to afford on this wage. Brass Vein teaches you to take joy in ugly rooms or you don't get joy at all, and I'm not interested in pretty lies about that.

Hull Scraps means we play scrap like it's a medal you weld on yourself. Distorted guitar, raw throat, set under four minutes because bar owners have clocks and so do bosses who hate encores. If a scout wants softer lyrics, they can buy a different night and a different throat. Label Softener was me saying no with feedback and a grin that wasn't friendly.

Med Debt still sits in my chest when the room goes quiet between songs — mother's bill, not a metaphor I sanded smooth. I don't make it a ballad marathon. I make it loud enough that pity can't talk over it. Catch us on KHES Heavy — and Junkers still — when the undercity needs a shout. Bring earplugs or don't. Your funeral, my chorus.