Salsbury - The "Ball sack" of America - Marshall Galactic

A week into the tour, we arrived at a park in North Carolina to play a little outdoor gathering. But this isn't about the gig, it's about the time afterwards and where my insatiable need to bowl brought us in North Carolina.
We were drinking with our friend Andrew Joslin, with whom we were also staying with for the night, he and his mom. He had some friends over. We had discussed earlier the idea of bowling. One of his friends suppposedly managed some lanes in the Salsbury. Unfortunately, Andrew's good friend was opposed to the idea of leaving the camp fire for the musky scent of carpet and cigarrettes. Kurt said he would rather die than go bowling. It was an epic turnaround. Andrew's powers of persuasion over the period of twenty minutes saw Kurt agree. Now after intense discussion and planning, we needed a car. So I undertook the task of unhooking the trailer. That's how bad I wanted to bowl. It was safer to leave the trailer alone in a parking lot than take it, hitched and locked and all, to Woodleaf Lanes.
Woodleaf was the scariest bowling alley I have ever been to. And normally, fear and bowling have no common property on this earth. Bowling is a peaceful sport, a respectful sport. But not so in Salsbury. Two homicides had taken place in the bathroom since the place opened. Beatings were common.
But fuck it, you gotta bowl. When we entered Brett and I and the rest of our party (nearly seven) were scoped hard by the locals. The bathroom floor was wet and I looked over my shoulder when I pissed. Still, I came out with some decent scores for a beginner, 156 and the like. After the good American sporting, we headed out for some american grub. At Waffle House we ran into a group of thugs who had attacked Andrew in high school. That was eight years ago, but they recognized him. Still, we utilized the jukebox. A family sat behind us chain-smoking beside their new-born baby. Salsbury. Ballsack of America.