WTTQ FIELD REPORT: “Pizza at the Salton Sea — Beyond Route 66”

 Filed by Raine Solara, grease on her fingers, salt crusting her boots.

They say Route 66 was never just a road, but an unfinished timeline.

A place where:
Lost lovers drive until their names fade from memory.
Abandoned postcards catch fire midair.
Forgotten songs play backward on loop from radios that haven’t worked in decades.

Anjelikka once appeared in a vintage red convertible, hair flying, lips stained like regret. She was laughing — but not at anything visible.
A green alien-cat in Ray-Bans has been seen thumbing a ride with a sign that says “Vegas or Bust or Back.”
And someone — maybe Scott — has scribbled the same phrase in chalk at every mile marker:
“This is where the forgetting begins again.”

A NEW POSTCARD FOUND:

Discovered at Mile Marker 13. Unmailed, unsigned, unsent:

“If you ever make it past the turn near the thunderbird sign, look to the left. I buried the promise ring. I know I wasn’t supposed to.”

If Route 66 is the road of forgetting, then the Salton Sea is what’s left after you’ve remembered too much.
No one means to arrive here.

But if you miss the Thunderbird sign and keep driving, the cracked earth eventually leads you to it — a shallow, glittering expanse of saltwater where reflections lie and birds scream like exes you ghosted in other dimensions.

“You left, but the hunger didn’t.”

THE PIZZA STAND

Yes, there’s pizza.

A crumbling shack on stilts, painted with chipped murals of Elvis, alien-cats, and a woman in a flapper dress (Anjelikka?).
No one works there, and yet:
The oven is always hot.
The jukebox always plays Nick Lowe.

And every slice comes with a tiny fortune tied in wax paper.

Dandy orders vegan no-cheese mushroom & lentil flatbread and then eats someone else’s meat lovers “by mistake.”
Bun G Chord DJed a set from the roof once, shouting: “This one’s for the heartbreak that lives in your bloodstream, baby!”
Scott — or someone who looks too much like him — has been seen staring out at the water, box of half-eaten pepperoni next to him, sketchbook closed.

“You come to the Salton Sea after the road ends.
You sit.
You eat what’s left.
And if you're lucky, the taste reminds you that even the bitterest craving means you’re still alive.”

Cherishville (AKA Route 66 and the Salton Sea) is a peaceful place, but be aware, “Route 66 doesn’t take you home.
It takes you to the version of home you left behind, on purpose.
Drive it if you must.
But don’t bring back passengers who were meant to stay forgotten.”

The cats won’t eat here.
They only watch.