Number 2 out of 150 Custom Helmets. Get it before we call it quits. Size XL

THE WATCHER IN THE BADLANDS

Out past the last fence post, where the pavement cracks and disappears into the alkali flats, there is said to be something buried beneath the desert.

The old riders call it The Watcher.

Nobody agrees on what it is. Some say it’s a god. Some say it’s a curse. Some believe it fell from the sky before anyone ever crossed the basin.

What everyone agrees on is this:

If you ride long enough, you’ll eventually find the jug.

A weathered face jug, half buried in the sand.

Covered in eyes.

Dozens of them.

Some say hundreds.

The eyes never blink.

They simply watch.

Travelers swear the eyes don’t appear all at once. First they notice them in distant rocks. Then in fence posts. Then reflected in mirrors and gas station windows. By the time they find the jug itself, the eyes have already been following them for days.

Nobody knows where the jug came from.

Nobody knows why it watches.

The old desert folk claim it marks the boundary between our world and something much older.

Something hungry.

THE SCAVENGERS

The buzzards know where the dead are before they die.

If one circles your shadow at noon, something is already waiting farther down the road.

The desert always feeds its own.

JUDGMENT

The scorpion’s tail is the last warning.

The broken bones belong to those who ignored the signs.

Those who chased strange lights into dry washes.

Those who answered voices carried on the wind.

Those who stared too long into the eyes of The Watcher.

The sting comes quickly.

The poison lasts forever.

THE BADLANDS

A wasteland of mesas, skulls, heat mirages, and impossible lights.

A landscape so old it remembers things people have forgotten.

Look long enough and you’ll notice something in the distance.

Something that doesn’t belong.

Something watching.

The black paint on this helmet shifts beneath the sun like an oil slick, flashing green, purple, blue, and crimson. Old timers say that isn’t the paint.

They say that’s the desert recognizing you.

The red wire that wraps around every panel isn’t barbed wire.

It isn’t rope.

It’s said to be the living roots of whatever sleeps beneath the badlands.

Every story on this helmet is connected by those roots.

Every rider eventually crosses them.

Not everyone rides back.

“Ride long enough and the desert starts recognizing you.”

Painted by Famous Letters & Scorchers
Chupacabra Chop Shop
Raleigh, North Carolina

Size: XL
Head circumference:61–62 cm
Inches:23.75”–24.25”
Approximate fitted hat size:7⅝–7⅞Size: XL