They said the swell was peaking, but nobody expected the Meanies to show up.
Out past the jagged bluffs of Mushroom Point—where the air smells like salt and spores—psychedelic sets roll in, peeling clean past the lighthouse. Beneath its fungi-covered cliffs, a secret lineup brews. Blue caps sprout along the trail and the locals? They're not human. They're meanies. And they're shredding.
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