HYPERTRASH
(As archived by the Unreliable Narrators Guild, Varsavati Division)
In the forgotten trailer parks between Fruita and Las Vegas, where satellite dishes buzz with encrypted signals and the air smells faintly of regret and expired methadone, a new genre began to form. It wasn’t birthed—it was leaked.
Hypertrash is what the voices called it. Not a genre, but a transmission. An auditory panic attack dressed in goth drag and smeared with cough syrup and burnt vinyl. A sound pioneered not by musicians, but by channelers—those who heard too much, felt too deep, and screamed just soft enough that only the haunted could hear.
GODDAMN GOTHS ON METH weren’t the first to receive the signal—but they were the first to document it. Sort of. Their recordings aren’t songs—they’re rituals, confessions, and evidence. Their early shows were more like controlled psychic detonations—part stand-up meltdown, part psych ward talent show, part divine punishment.
While goth purists scoffed and post-punk revivalists snuck out early, the message spread. In rest stop bathrooms, half-lucid gas station attendants began humming the melody to “The Chicken Whacker Waddle.” The cult grew. The Varsavati Broadcast began.
And so Hypertrash lives—not as a scene, but as a contagion. A dirty mirror held up to industrial, goth, and noise—all reflected through broken glass and old Family Dollar security cameras.
