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It's the same story Desmond's told a million times. The Black Hills, more an idea than a place. Most people he tells it to have never even seen a forest in person.
He phrases it to make them laugh. People used to be shocked by the parts he let on — up before the sun, no unhealthy food, parents teaching him about their made-up shadow war — so he stopped making it a big deal. It sucks to be a downer.
Being fun isn't hard. It's easy to talk to people, make their days a little brighter with a drink and some conversation. Desmond gets to know Bad Weather's regulars, and they get to know him.
Sometimes, they invite him out. It's his job to say no, but half the time he accepts anyway. Clubbing is fun. Easy. Desmond's ID is about as fake as it can get, but the bouncers don't care.
The locals can tell he's not from the city, no matter how long he's been here. They ask where he's from, a flirtatious lilt to the question. Desmond tells the truth like a joke. Conspiracy freak parents, living off the grid in the woods, preparing for some apocalypse that will never come.
He doesn't take them back to his place. His apartment is blank, a cheap hole in the wall. He leaves his bed unmade and it feels like a rebellion against people he hasn't seen in years.
Second dates are, somehow, always out of the question. Desmond tried a few times, failed miserably, and gave up.
The drink is a little "fuck you" to all of it. The years his parents spent raising him to be a perfect little soldier to fight in an imaginary war. Sleeping on the streets, hoping a cop wouldn't take him by the shoulder and ask why he wasn't at home. The way his feet ached, wandering the badlands, too afraid of his family and their enemies to dare to hitch a ride.
Even when he gives them the story behind the name, the patrons don't get it. It's a joke that's only funny while he's telling it, laughing about some crazy cult that believed a random company was going to take over the world. As soon as it's physical, as a drink or as a person, it's not that funny anymore.