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Apr. 10th, 2016 06:11 amGood 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.
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.