The Coastals were a very diverse group, but they all had one thing in common. They were emaciated since the fish had died off. They wore plastic Glad-Bags for clothes. After the fall of civilization they had formed a tribe like enclave, built around a couple of old cement bodied ships in the harbor, in which there were greenhouses. The weed was still toxic and radioactive, but no-one seemed to care. They smoked it anyhow, GovCorp had enriched them at first, tying their tiny weed crop to CryptoCann., a virtual weed coin. But the locals spent it all on tin drums and alcohol. These days they spent most of their time playing primitive death metal with really basic drum beats, and chunking de-tuned guitars. They did this while chanting into the giant volcano, and throwing an occasional SJW into the steaming molten lava (for good measure).
They also worshipped a giant green emerald portal, which was carved out inside a dark hollowed out, decaying RedWood tree. They claimed they learned about the portal by following time travelling Yeti, who he was pretty sure hid those black onyx monolith slabs inside the trees for some reason.
Daryl was emaciated at this point too. He was trying to get their attention, to play his demo for them, but they were too busy chanting and doing a prolonged riff build-up towards a riff which would never come.
“Can you possibly make your demo sound more like this? And also I do not like the production factor on it,” they chided.
“Yes”, Daryl replied. At this point he was sick of working so hard to get others to listen to his tunes and he had had it. “But the world can do without you”, he said as he shoved the Coastal into the lava.
A bunch of the tribalists now came at him with spears in their hands, threatening to castrate him and feed him to their Artichoke god.
Daryl had two choices:
a) he could either stand and fight the large group of emaciated tribalists (to the death).
b) run back towards the portal and attempt to teleport