The origin of those sounds, a minivan, slowly rolled along the asphalt, Dominic felt something in his soul hurt. His ears wincing against the sounds, and the fumes of the exhaust getting into his eyes. Models of cars like this are hallmarks of the previous century, and even though this model was new, deep down it was still a lemon. "My god, what a travesty..." He slipped off the tongue. He observed quietly, quenching his thirst with some water nearby.

Two, no… wait, three people were inside. The driver was a man who looked like a redneck, and the other two were some young people, around the same age as George and Marie. The one with the glasses looked like a wreck, and terribly suspicious. And he almost missed him, but there was one other guy who looked dead. They stopped right next to the dispenser.

It was time to begin my approach, he thought. He swayed confidently, posture was straight, and his business look plastered nicely— a sign of hospitality in these parts of the state. Dominic smiled, and began to put on his business look: Which consisted of a sincere smile openly admitting to tax ev— I mean, hospitality, and a penchant for talking.

Then, the driver of the seat stepped out of his car.

Here’s my chance!

"Hey ho, long way you've traveled and to think you're the first to arrive at this here gas station today." Dominic clasped and rubbed his hands together.

“Good afternoon, pal. I umm… just need a

“Now, let’s start things off. Your car is a pile of metal that reeks of lemon.”

“Huh, where’d that come from.” The redneck guy said monotonously.

“That’s not important. Your car’s a lemon, and if you’re deciding to head on the highway. People will take this sad car as an insult.”

“Hey! Don’t insult my car. Sure it’s a lemon, but this lemon has never failed me, save for the time my little girl decided to have a joyride. And that sharp tongue of you—”

“Now there, hold your words for one juicy moment!” Dominic yelped, as he took out a notepad. “If you are terribly in need of service repairing somethin’... That’ll cost you a few. But, if that’s not what you want; Do you need diesel, special, standard, or perhaps a good concoction of mine.”

“What might that be called?” The redneck guy said now interested.

And with a smug look on his face, he said, “Frontrunner fuel.”

“...Ok, but that’s not what we need.”

The man then coughed a plume of smoke, “I need my ice repaired. And given that I also have no more fuel left, maybe I can take a pint of that frontrunner shit… Why did you name it like that?”

“Ice? What…” A stuttering voice screeched. Dominic stepped back a bit.

“Oh, I meant the engine.”

***

I took this moment to drag a passive Matt out of the car, and crept away from the two men. They began to talk about nonsense, as if they were in a pub drunk watching the next game. I could not afford to associate myself with those kinds of people. Then, a tight sensation began to wrap around my arm. It was Matt.

"I get that you want me to come with you, but do you really have to drag me by the hood? It's going to break."

"...Apologies.”

“Well, it’s not like it would really matter anyways.” Matt dusted himself, “Let’s just enter the shop. I’ve got a limited budget, so just tell me what you want.”

“Are you sure you want to do it like that? I mean you work very hard to earn that money. These days, it's hard to come by.”

“I know. So make it cheap. That’s what I sa—”

Matt suddenly slammed against the glass doors. He stuck himself there for a moment, but then slowly slid down to the ground… And to top it all off, the doors suddenly slid open: The creak similar to maniacal laughter. It was the kind of thing to see from a classic slapstick cartoon. Even I, someone who prefers having a stoic face, almost laughed at the prospect. Still, the doormat didn’t look too amused.

“Matt! Are you okay?” The concern leaked out of my mouth. “You didn’t get a concussion, yes?”

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“I’m fine.” Matt grunted, “Sensors hardly ever work when I’m in the way. Do you think I’m a ghost or something?”

“Matt. We’re in the middle of nowhere. There’s no way that the sensor hasn’t been properly maintained… Also, paranormality is something you lack, even you are a very ”

“Right, let’s get in.”

So we headed in.

“Welcome to the Pitstop, where we believe customer is first…”

You would not believe how much I restrained myself from looking disgusted at the shop.

The store was… elegantly arranged in my politest tone. It had the display racks nicely packed with commercial commodities, but the first question I asked myself was why in the hell were there a stack of sacks in there. Surely they must know that hygiene inspectors would have closed this down within a few days of business!

The clerk, I wanted to know who hired him (It seemed to be that weirdo with the driver out there), was shirtless and reading a men’s magazine. He had bold blond hair combed into a surfer’s hairstyle. For some strange reason, sniffles and some hiccups were coming out of the man.

The state of this day and age. I wondered what had gone wrong.

“Why’re you staring at me, guy?” The clerk noticed. He set the magazine down, and stood up.

“Where’s your shirt? Shouldn’t you be wearing one?”

“Don’t need it, guy. Do you need something regarding your service? I have experience serving as customer service.” The clerk simply said. “The name’s George, by the way and let’s begin. What are your problems?”

“Experience in customer service?” I yelped, confused as to what this imbecile meant. “What do you mean customer service? I was just—”

I then paused. Realizing what I have

“Oh, I know. You’re a failure. A failure at life.”

“What?!”

“Somewhere down the line, you must’ve done something horrible.” George exclaimed, “And you’ve regretted it for a while. You feel as though you’ve failed at life. I think that’s why you have a problem with me not wearing a shirt.”

When that improper imbecile uttered those wars

"Look, if you want to score. You gotta make sure you can aim really well. This applies to any situation, and you have to make your call."

George just simply stated. He then stood up from his seat and approached me at

"...What does that have anything to do with me?" I then retorted with . "Look, I just, just came here for a typical winter expedition, not a therapy session!”

“I haven’t seen any city-dwellers for a while. It’s good to spark up some chats around.”

“And you think that’s the correct time? How far has this convo gone, you’re still not wearing a shirt and please silence yourself!”

George however, this guy was an endless stream of words. He just kept talking; he would not dare to shut his damn mouth. Leaves a bad aftertaste, indicative of some kind of mental disturbance.

Who would even like this guy? My classmate Fenn would rivet and tell him to stop, and she’s the best gossiper in the school. Refusing to wear a shirt, the shop violates so many safety regulations. He seemed to sniffle and wail the more he began to talk. So many questions ran up my mind that I felt like releasing my stress-locked fist onto something. That guy was perfect.

But then…

“Heyo. That’s pretty good advice.”

Matt suddenly spoke and showed up with minimum supplies. My nerves calmed down a bit, but my anxiety remained, which resulted in some awkward silence, which my body took as a sign to blush. Playing a joke at this moment… It’s no wonder I like to take myself in a serious cadence.

But then Matt decided to play a little joke, settling us down. “Now if only I could do that with my career. How much is everything going to cost?”

I showed a thumbs up, but Matt just stayed silent. That look in the moment I took my sight toward him, it was hard to know. His long locks were blocking his eyes, but I could’ve sworn I saw something genuine about it.

“That’ll be fifteen dollars and twenty cents. Thank you very much.” George said.

“Good riddance, and wear a shirt!”

“...”

***

Walking back to the car felt longer than it should’ve.

“Wasn’t that guy a pain in the glutes?” Otto came up to me. He looked a lot worse than in the car, and it seemed like it had something to do with verbal torture. “He wouldn’t stop talking, You heard it right?”

“I think I did, or did I?” I answered back. “Just ignore him, we won’t see him again anyways.”

…But it did not really matter whether or not I talked. This is just an extra measure for people who’re not used to the country. I shifted my gaze towards my bag of groceries; Two cans of ginger ale, a packed meal of steamed veggies, coleslaw, and pork slabs, a pack of cigarettes for Dad, a postcard that read: Caibo, the Riviera in the South Nodeka. Fifteen dollars for this was reasonable but my wallet cried. Weakling.

There are things I want to clear my mind of. Especially slipping in front of Otto of all people… I should probably call her, but she’s probably busy doing stuff right now at camp. Thinking isn’t good.

So we continued walking back to my dad’s car. They were still arguing, and I smirked. Dad always loved to talk about cars, and liked this one since Mom bought it for him for their wedding anniversary.

“So Otto, how’s everything so far?”

“I’m not sure about this…” He talked slowly. Oh boy, this means that he really did not like this.

“Why did you have to invite me to your vacation?”

“You were excited when I asked you, though Otto."

Otto began to rant about the problems that he faced, and so on and on. He definitely tried his best to sound polite. His very best. Well, I just hope that he calms down and enjoys this. We only have a few kilometers left until we get to the Caibo Sea. He will love it.

And maybe I will too.