The convoy of the 3K Party raced down the highway, with more than ten small trucks' engines roaring loudly, as if cheering for the reverberating sacrifice.
Even though so many years have passed, the rednecks' living conditions haven't improved much. Still, they adore the roar of large engines just as they always have, willing to spend their already limited money on maintaining their beloved cars, thus making the convoy particularly imposing on the road.
Meanwhile, the priest sitting in the convoy took off his hood and robe, revealing a bronze face, rough and silent, like a reef polished by waves for millennia, with a still unhealed scar crossing his right brow ridge through the eye socket, living image of an American tough guy stereotype.
It's hard to associate him with a cult priest.
"The ceremony is going as planned, but everyone's circumstances aren't very good."
