The gas tank ran empty halfway through the desert.

It was another chalk mark on the blackboard of Wade Parker's extraordinary bad luck. To be fair, as soon as he hit the stretch of highway slicing through the one true wasteland this side of the globe, he knew it was only a matter of time before something shit the bed. An empty tank was an easy fix. The bad luck was the timing and the placement. He attributed that to a balance of bad karma and Kiki Shriver. It was a cosmic joke of the universe that of all the women who have ever performed voodoo and gypsy curses on their exes; Kiki Shriver was the one who had a true spark of power.

After the third freak accident, she apologized, but that did little to fix Wade's karma. Normally he wouldn't risk a trip through the desert, but the siren song of opportunity came in the form of a job he couldn't pass up; working at one of the fat cat casinos. He was always a sucker for glitz and neon lights, and the job had the added bonus of being across the country from Kiki Shriver.

So, of course his car sputtered to a stop at 5am in the middle of the desert.

Wade drove from noon onward the day before, hauling ass across as many states as he could manage without stopping. Now, as he kicked the silent front of the car, he knew he should have stopped at that stucco ruin of motel twenty miles back. It was a reverse witching hour, the sunlight creeping over the sand, nothing on the barren road but a few under caffeinated truckers.

In a cloud of curses and road dust, Wade snagged his water bottle and empty gas can, heading back toward the motel. There was a two pump station attached to that motel, a necessity of isolation, and there might be a small greasy spoon joint in the mix too. He'd take cheap diner food over the can of pringles in his passenger seat. All he had to do was trek twenty miles in the wrong direction. He sighed. If he was lucky he'd be there in time for lunch.

He stomach grumbled, reminding him of the half congealed burger he wolfed down well before midnight. It continued its burbling symphony as he walked, an off kilter harmony in time to his scuffed steps.

Wade held out a half hearted thumb to a few passing trucks, but he might as well have been invisible for all the exhaust he was eating. He couldn't have been walking more than forty minutes before he'd soaked through his short sleeve polo, a heavy shirt made for a cooler climate. It wasn't that hot out, but the exertion and thick clothing made it feel like a sauna. Hot enough for the heat to shimmer and bend the air as it rose off the pavement.

Wade strolled into that waving air without a second thought. It was simply heat, an air distortion, nothing more.

From one step to the next, the world inverted on itself.

He blinked, staring across the rosy pink sands and dune washed sky. Maybe the hunger was getting to him more than he cared to admit. He shook himself, rubbing his tired eyes with one hand, the other loosely holding the gas can thumping against his thigh. He looked again. If possible, the sand was more pink than before, a vibrant cotton candy pink against the bleached out sky. He wrote it off as a trick of the desert.

There was also...something down the road he swore wasn't there before, a clutch of low buildings an eye-smarting shade of antifreeze orange with key lime trim. A mounted neon sign lazily spun high in the air on the only structure more than a single story off the ground. He couldn't make out the lettering from here, but it was a welcome sign of civilization. Wade broke into a flailing trot. He was never much of a runner but the promise of a burger and fries turned him into a regular Usain Bolt.

The cluster of building came up fast. Wade's steps started to falter as distance gave way to clarity, revealing to full scope of the small town he approached. How the heck had he missed this sideshow? It looked like Pee Wee's Playhouse threw up in his Aunt Marcy's front yard. Lawn ornaments ate up available inch of space in the sandbox yards of each building, framed by haphazardly planted blooming cacti and potted colorful flowers. Plastic flamingos, ceramic lawn gnomes, singing frogs, guitar playing turtles and a multitude of other creations made up a garden party devoted to every poor taste in decor that ever existed. Wade found himself gawking as he drew closer, the riot of color making his eyes swim.

So garish and chaotic it was damn near hypnotic. Wade resisted the urge to rub his eyes again, fairly certain he'd just rub more sand into his cornea.

"What can I do for ya, sonny?"

Wade yelped and dropped the gas can. So distracted by the frolicking lawn gnomes, he'd missing the violently purple beehive weaving through the yard to him. He followed that inspiring pile of hair down to find a woman who reminded him an awful lot like a younger version of his Aunt Marcy, complete with a warm butter yellow kaftan and hot pink cat's eye glasses perched on her freckled nose.

"Uh yeah. Um, my car broke down a few miles back..." Wade trailed off, nodding to the fallen gas can at his feet. The one thing he didn't spot amid the brightly colored building was a service station. Odd, considering there didn't appear to anything else for miles and miles. He grinned and scratched the back of his neck. "Seems like you don't have a gas station."

The hair hive bobbed with the woman's shrug. "Why bother, love, we have everything we need right here," she said. Bright green eyes, sharp as crabgrass, looked him over. "Looks like you could use a meal or two. When was the last time you ate, sonny?"

Wade's stomach growled on cue. The back of his neck heated. Did she have to call him sonny? She barely looked a decade older than him at most. "Not since last night."

"Tish, tosh, we need to feed you! Poor thing, wandering out here with an empty belly and a soft head. You're lucky you found us," she said with a wink. Us who? Wade didn't see anyone beyond the gathering of lawn gnomes. The woman turned, sending the violet beehive wobbling as she waved a hand at a orange and green building at the base of the rotating neon sign. "Head over to Ray's. Tell him Ms. Bridgette sent you." Her nails were mismatched shades of fuschia and teal, sparkling with tiny press on gems.

Taking in the whole ensemble, she was a work of modern art. Wade turned to the direction she pointed, his senses snared by the heavenly aroma of sizzling meat.

"Oh yes. Thank you so much Ms. Bridgette," he said, leaving his gas can in the cotton candy sand as he lurched for the diner.

Bacon, it had to be bacon, he could taste it already as he burst through the poisonous green front doors of the joint. He stared; jaw hung open, warring between disgust and awe.

A ceramic bulldog wearing a dress and a Carmen Miranda fruit hat greeted him at the door, jowls painted with lipstick. Velvet paintings of Elvis, Hendrix, and Jerry Garcia hung from the walls. Every inch of counter space and the top of the stools were taken up by hand painted murals. Oh, what murals. He caught flashes of gold, waving cats, winking dolphins, and other oddly postured animals he covered with his butt. Wave leaned between the laughing Buddha salt and pepper shakers, searching for the promised Ray.

He'd been sitting long enough for his stomach to start roaring when a man in a Kiss the Cook apron exited from the swinging doors of the kitchen. Wade raised a brow at the apron. Ray was a burly fellow, bald on top with a drooping sandy blonde walrus mustache that flapped like a windsock in his wake. He had arms on him that could crush soup cans while flexing. He folded those tin crushers over his chest and stared Wade down.

" Help you?" Ray grumbled. Kiss the Cook indeed.

"Uh, what are your specials today?" Wade offered a pleasant smile, praying to his ancestors they accepted American Express.

Ray's stony expression remained long enough to make him uncomfortable. A whiff of pungent cigarette smoke teased his nose.

"I told you to mention me, Sonny," said Ms. Bridgette from his left. Wade jumped. He didn't here her come in. It was if she appeared out of thin air, in a cloud of smoke from the cigarette dangling from a zebra striped holder. Ms. Bridgette clamped the steam in her teeth, grinning at Ray with slightly yellowed teeth. "Can we get two specials, Ray darling?"

The man snorted. "Yeah, yeah," he said but a smile peeked from beneath the 'stache.

"So, what brings a young man like you to our little haven?" Ms. Bridgette held the cigarette like a classic Disney villain. If she started asking him about puppies he was out of here.

"I told you, the car broke down," said Wade, hunger making him less polite than she deserved.

She rolled her eyes. "No, that is how you got here. What brought you here?"

Wade blinked at her. "I beg your pardon?"

Ray returned, slapping down two plates of some...concoction.

"What are we eating?"

"Bacon, raspberry, basil, and gruyere omelettes," said Ms. Bridgette, flicking her cigarette into a sad panda ashtray. "Ray likes to pair interesting flavors together but I promise it works."

Wade took a tentative bite and fought back a moan. "Oh my..." He started shoveling, each bite a burst of flavors on his tongue.

"Now that you've got a bit of food in your gut, what brought to our little burg?"

This question again? Wade finished swallowing with a frown. "Well, I was going for a Vegas job but truth be told I was trying to avoid someone."

A knowing smile lit Ms. Bridgette's features. She was quite pretty when she smiled, violet beehive and all. "Ah, yes, we tend to accumulate the lost and those trying to lose themselves."

"'Fraid I don't plan on staying. Just grabbing a meal for the road. Thanks for the recommendation. The food was delicious."

"It should be, Ray has had an awful lot of time to practice," said Ms. Bridgette, pointedly ignoring his comment about leaving. "Who were you trying to get away from?"

Wade sighed, feeling much more open to conversation with a full stomach. "An ex, who I probably should have appreciated more when we were together."

Ms. Bridgette smirked. "Hexed you did she?"

Goosebumps prickled the back of his neck. Her words were oddly...specific.

"Something like that," said Wade.

She dug her elbow into his side, releasing a puff of smoke in his face that smelt of anise and burning rubber. "Ray had the same problem. Don't worry, love, she can't find you here. Nothing can find you here."

The unease kicked up a notch. "Right, well. I am just going to pay for my meal and be going. Do you happen to know where the nearest gas station is?"

"You're meal's all set, Sonny,' said Ms. Bridgette, rising from the stool. "Why don't we have a look at the residencies?"

He stayed where he was. "I'm afraid I can't stay. I really need to gas up my car and keep on--"

"I thought I made it pretty clear, Sonny, the lost end up here. Lost things, thrown away things, and people trying to lose themselves. We are the bermuda triangle of highway sixty six."

Wade froze. He'd tripped into the Devil's Kitschy Tourist Trap. He had to get the hell out of here.

Ms. Bridgette's fuscia and rhinestone finger nails landed gently on his arm. "No use panicking. Think it through, love. That hex was going to chase you all the way across the country. Otherwise you wouldn't have found us." She flicked more ash into the tray. "The decor here might be a little odd, but you'll get used to it. And you can find something you truly enjoy doing here."

Wade slowly unwound as her wounds sank in. This was all that damn Kiki Shriver's fault. He'd never date a woman with a voodoo fetish again. Not that his dating pool would be all that stellar if the only people were Ms. Bridgette and Ray. An odd sort of resignation shifted through him. There were worse fates for men who'd scorned women. Certainly worse than being trapped in Liberace's sand box. Plus, Ray did make a mean omelette.

"Truly enjoy doing?" Wade mused. "Like what?"

Ms. Bridgette patted his arm. "Have you tried Macrame?"