The mysterious and somewhat anonymous Trusto Corp makes art, not war.
Words by Trusto Corp Photos by Zero Displacement
A few weeks ago while driving from LA to Vegas, we pulled over to take in the glory of something beautiful. Not the mountains. Not the girl passed out in my car, hung over from a 30th birthday in Vegas, but the fucked-up, forgotten ruins of a civilization somewhere north of the Mojave Desert and just south of Death Valley.
Truly American ruins that are only ten, maybe fifteen years old. Gas stations, homes, cars, billboards, hotels, diners and a water park left to die a slow death by scavengers, sand, vandals and sunshine. No one cares about these places now, but it’s obvious from the hand-painted signage and home grown architecture that someone once did. Now they’ve been shit out the bad side of capitalism and ripped apart by the natural and human elements of the world. Now, it’s our turn to care for them. They’re fucking beautiful and we’re gonna paint them. They’re ours now. We have now dubbed this thirsty oasis TRUSTOLAND.
We made a 48-hour plan. A dirty desert mission to make the Merry Pranksters proud, only our hallucinations were to be made of ink, paint and sweat. Rolling thunder off the highway, we’re ready to fuck shit up and get busy. In the immortal words of the Detroit Highwaymen MC: “Yea, though we ride in the shadows of death, we fear no evil, for we are the most evil motherfuckers on the highway.” Rumors of the most corrupt sheriff in America rang true when he paid us a visit. He smoked a cigarette and watched us paint. A lonely motherfucker having a good day, he let us to do the same. Looking at the cop’s taillights, we settled in for a long day in the desert. Turn up the volume, lay down the paint; we got a free fucking pass to let loose the devil. Thank you, America!
This story appears in Mass Appeal Issue 52. Read more stories from the issue here.