In response to the Deserted prompt at WritingThe200
A century after their ancestors were deserted here on an ill-fated mining expedition, the wild asses of Death Valley Junction roam with slow deliberation in the general direction of whatever is tickling the pack leader’s fancy.
Locals pay them about as much mind as city folk do panhandlers. They’re alright…as long as they ain’t shittin’ all over your property and scavenging after food momentarily left unattended.
Tourists, on the other hand, with their out of state plates, are likely to slam on the brakes, veer off the paved road into a cloud of dust as they hotly pursue a small herd like they were the first ones with the bright idea of snagging an up close photo of a donkey being hand fed from a bag of Cheetos while a straw hat is rested on its head.
The wild burros are used to this, and welcome the opportunity to partake in snack foods, digestible clothing, road maps and whatever other roughage they can wrangle before the visitors realize their folly and beat a hasty retreat.
On opposite ends of jackass alley, gas station mini-marts run brisk business selling replacement items and first aid supplies to folks just passing by.