goodguygrifter

It's like a kid's book, the inside of his head, straight to the point, simple just like a kid's book is simple. There's a kid's book somewhere, probably, that starts like it, just like this: This is Spot. See Spot run. Run, Spot, run.

Except, with him, it goes a little more like this: This is Hal Forrester. This is Steve Pinington. This is Andrew Alcatraz. Yeah, good old 8-ball, he was a fun one. Depending on just how you define the word 'fun'. Andrew had to take his fun where he could get it.

Lots of 'em. He's got a suitcase full of names.

A long time ago, there were people who called him Stanley.

This is Stanley. See Stanley work. Work, Stanley, work.

It's dark in the basement. Lots of the lighting's broken. Stanley doesn't care. It's bright enough to work by, so that's alright. It's cold in the basement, but he forgot about that a long time ago, he even has to stop now and then to wipe the sweat away from his eyes. That's alright, too. He thinks he might be about to make a breakthrough. He thinks this might be the breakthrough that actually, you know, breaks through, this time.

This goes on his head, right, this stupid colander thing. It hooks up to a machine, the one that lines up the portal's coordinates, symbols he's been staring at so long he's been seeing them when he sleeps. When he closes his eyes, at least. 

Okay. Hat on head. Other end of hat hooked up to machine. Think about Ford. Oh man, Ford. Ford trapped in some, god knows what, stuck in some monster's big toothy mouth or, or stuffed in some teeny tiny space by the space alien version of Jorge and his goons, or-

Shit, that's all Stan's got. He's empty, burned up, he can't think. The lights must be going again because the room's going all dark and light and dark again on him, and it's hot in here, his shoulder burns, oh fuck it burns, and Ford, think about Ford and the portal will read all those twin brainwaves or what the fuck ever, and then, then everything will be fine.

The man someone once called Stanley thinks of his brother. He thinks of Ford as he last saw him, older, all stress, all strung out five o' clock shadow and pervert's trenchcoat and stretched out arms, hands, Stanley! Do something! Stanley!

Stanley's big, clumsy fingers move over the dials of the machine. He doesn't have to think about it, which is probably a good thing. He's done it so often now that trying to start the whole thing up ain't tough. He thinks, hard, about Ford. That ain't tough either.

He thinks about Ford. He lets the thoughts burn him up. He does something.

He flips the last switch.

Good old Route 20. It starts in Boston and stretches all the way out to some-fucking-where in Oregon, and it's one of - if not The - the longest road in these great and United States. Stan knows that, because over the past few years Stan has learned a little thing or two about highways. Highways take you over state lines, they take you out of local cop jurisdiction, they take you toward your next big break. By this point highways and Stan are kinda' old friends. This one he don't know that well - not that he don't head up north sometimes, but he tries to stay lower, where the nights are warmer and he don't have to use up so much gas workin' the heater so hard.

Good old Route 20. Taking him away from - god, or more like God, the real big guns, upper case G-O-D 'cause there's been a time or two in the past, the past however long where Stan thinks he mighta' caught himself mid prayer, not that he's ever been a praying kinda' guy, especially not for a while, but sometimes shit just happens. He thinks a part of him might still be at it right now. If that feeling really is a part of him still praying he don't know why he's doing it or what he might be praying for but he don't stop himself, because oh, oh sweet baby Moses if there's a guy in a hundred miles who needs a miracle more than Stan Pines  - or Stu Oakley, the latest in a long line of gen-u-ine home made fake IDs - then that poor bastard's earned it.

This rest stop might be the big break he's looking for. Not a huge break, but you take 'em where you can find 'em and he mighta' found it now because whichever armpit of the US he's tucked all snug into right now decided not to give their taxpayer funded state-welcome-and-rest-area working lamps over the parking lots. Stan hardly looks around, just keeps hobbling right over the curb and for once he ain't thinkin' about how he'd come off if anyone saw, he's not thinking about the extreme roadrash wide and red over his legs and his forearms and the backs of his hands, or the blood that dripped and dried from high up on his forehead where he didn't get his hands far up enough, or that one shoe he lost to who knows where, or anything. He just makes a beeline for the nearest car, yanks at the handle, and this sure is the big break because it comes right open, he stumbles back with how easy it comes open and kneels and makes a noise because fuck, what's left of the skin on his back really don't wanna' move like that and whatever's caked into the mess he's made of his knees sure don't want company, but this is his big break and he's not going to fuck it up and he's going to reach under the wheel and he's going to get those wires and he is gonna' go go go, and he is gonna' meet up with his good old friend the highway of Route 20 and he is going to be okay and he is going to be gone.