Chapter 12: Rockabilly Hills

The surfmobile was now entering Rockabilly Hills, as evidenced by the welcome sign flanked by the tall, slim, neon-bordered, 2D, pointing cowboy.

This was something of a time-warp province; the architecture, landscapes, vehicles, clothing, and hairstyles were a tribute to the early days of rock ‘n’ roll. Looking like a one-night, coming-of-age, cruising-mainstreet, sock-hop film, no other region of Rocklantia was so coupled to a specific era of time.

At long last, the Woody now blended in well with the grapevine hot-rods and gleeped motorbikes that cruised the asphalt-and-cobblestone roads. On the sidewalks loitered ducktailed, chickie-run rebels in rolled-sleeves and blue jeans; cattin’ with ponytailed bombshells in poodle skirts and flying-feet bobby socks. In the auto garages and soda shops could be heard vinyl records featuring semi-hollowbody, crisp electric guitars with slap reverb played through tweed, tube amps. A slow, eerie, strolling, sleepwalking pedal steel was also out there somewhere.

“Wow, this place is something else,” commented Riff, who hadn’t been here in years.

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