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In memory of Flyin' Black Jackson
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929545 No. 929545 ID: 80c195

Sand, sand, and more fucking sand.

An endless, hellish landscape. Devoid of life. That's why you're here, after all.

You've been driving for three days straight, kept awake by nothing but black coffee and blacker nightmares. You're somewhere in the southwest, it's as close as you're going to get to your destination, which is to say, nowhere.

You're driving an old beaten-up economy car, in the back trunk sits a briefcase containing 50,000$. On your person, you have a small pocket knife, a burner flip-phone, a wallet containing 60$ or so, and an M1911 pistol with only one seven-round magazine. There's a backpack on the passenger seat next to you with a change of clothes, some toiletries, a half-empty bottle of absinthe, a small tin full of medical supplies, and an almost empty bottle of painkillers.

You're going to need more painkillers soon, your gut is starting to throb again, but you have to ration what you have left.

It's about seven PM, and starting to get dark out. You could either keep driving, to where you don't know. Or you could pull over and sleep in the car. Either way, you need to rest soon, much as you hate the thought of stopping.
No. 929589 ID: 49a777

What would be the problem with stopping? As long as being stationary doesn't raise the chance of an untimely death, it would be preferable to depriving oneself of sleep; the likelihood of any unfortunate event occurring is much greater if you can't focus. I take it you aren't headed to Nowhere, Arizona, that seems a bit literal. Also, just out of curiosity, how did you get here, or, if you've always been here, how did "here" get to the point that it is?
No. 929634 ID: 80c195

You're running from a lot of things; from your past, your mistakes, and most of all yourself.

Well now one of those mistakes, in the form of a very angry ex-acquaintance, is back to kill you. You just hope you're faster.

How did I get here. I good question. It involved a lot of bodies, a lot of bad choices, and the fucking Miami job... Damn, I'm way too sober to be dredging up the past right now.

You decide to pull over and get some sleep before you collapse.

You find a nice spot in the lee of a stone about twenty feet from the road. You take a shot of absinthe, recline your seat, and try to sleep through the howling of the wind.

You must have eventually fallen asleep, because you're awoken by a sharp crack.

You quickly sit up and turn on the car's internal light.

There's a large fracture spiderwebbing across the windshield, the point of impact is nearly powdered. Whatever hit the glass was heavy and hard, a rock or something similar. At first you write it off as the wind and bad luck, but then you realize that the wind doesn't throw rocks. Not like this.

You peer into the darkness outside of the car, and there, directly ahead, about fifteen feet away, are two large green glowing eyes; animal eyes.

Normally, you'd just figure it some sort of desert rodent.

Only the eyes sit about six feet from the ground.

You draw your pistol and chamber a round. You don't know what or who the hell that is, but you have to deal with it one way or another. Just getting away from it would be enough for you.
No. 929640 ID: 49a777

Well, worst case scenario you've awakened some twelve-foot-tall hell-beast that is looming over your car waiting for you to move so that it can squish you out of the car like yogurt from a soft plastic tube. Best case scenario, which, given the state of things, is unlikely, you are asleep and dreaming.

About how far back are those eyes? Just based on the fact that it used a projectile to punch through that glass, it probably can't immediately reach you, so there is a good chance you could start the car and reverse away. Given that the car does not start, you will die if you continue to attempt to start the car after it does not once or twice. Only use bullets if you know you will hit and other options are suicidal. All things considered, your best bet is escape.
No. 944448 ID: eba23a

This. Nopenopenope.
No. 944450 ID: 977456

Is this consistent with your spirit animal? I mean, I would assume that your spirit animal is Scrappy Doo, but looks can be deceiving.

Either way, if your car can't take running the thing down, then your gun probably won't do much. Get your motor moving.
No. 944587 ID: 28c1e4

I hope we didn't slip through the veil of world's where it seems thinnest. Lonesome places like the desert are easy for that. Try and get back on the road. Honk your horn, and if you need to use that gun.
No. 944592 ID: 977456

Meh. If the veil was that thin then we can't be the first thing through. Cultural contamination will have worn off the edges already. We wanted to get away from our old life anyway. What is a little mutation and running from willwolves compared to getting what we wanted?
No. 944649 ID: 4cab1d

An uncomfortable sensation blooms in your stomach, like an infection it seeps outwards, spreading through your veins and worming into your brain; it permeates your every thought, clouds you judgment, and screams one thing:


It's fear. You'd figured that particular emotion long dead, thought your father had beaten it out of you with a belt by age eight. But here it is, unfamiliar and unwelcome, hidden deep down. Not deep enough, apparently.

Because those eyes, they scare you.

But whatever fear you're still capable of feeling isn't enough to stop you from doing something about this. Your free hand moves almost on its own; grabbing the key in the ignition and turning it.

The engine whines, struggling to start, and you curse yourself and the car as the eyes move: fast. They charge towards you in the dark, it must be leaping.

You raise your pistol to fire. Too late, it's lesson then four feet away, headed straight for the windshield.

The engine starts, the headlights flash on, and you catch a glimpse of the creature.

An owl. It's a damned owl. You only barely see it as it flies over the car, startled by the engine. Ahead of you, a rock stands. A rock about six feet tall.

You slump back into your seat and let your pistol go slack at your side, "Wilkson, you senile old bastard, they should throw ya' in the retirement home." You chastise yourself, trying to calm your shaken nerves.

Maybe you really are going crazy. Took you long enough. All you needed was lack of sleep and absinthe. Nasty combination. The painkillers don't help either.

Nasty as it may be, you end up taking two more shots of absinthe before finally succumbing to sleep deprivation and the alcohol. Even then, your rest is bad at best; drug-induced nightmares, waking up several times to your side throbbing, and paranoia, some justified, hanging over every minute of rest.

Finally, the pain wakes you up for the last time when you see the sun is up, just barely; a golden sunrise lancing through the darkness, wispy clouds painted obscene shades of pink, red, purple.

Practically paradise. Aside from the sand, heat, drought, and total emptiness, of course.

That last one isn't so bad, actually.
No. 944651 ID: 977456

Whistle a tune and check the car.
No. 944776 ID: 688668

It occurs to you to check the car for damage, after that storm last night.

You stretch, awkwardly, to the extent you can without aggravating your side, and pop your door open.

You take a moment to prepare mentally for the pain that follows every time you stand up, then swing you feet out the door to get the whole process over with.

You stand; much faster than you should have. That was stupid. You hiss and brace yourself against the car. Pain lances up your back and joints, all horribly cramped from so long on the road, a headache immediately develops as blood rushes to your head, pins and needles shoot down your left leg, which must have had the circulation cut off while you slept. You're hungry, dehydrated, and now pretty much everything hurts. If you're lucky you might even have a heart attack and die out here. The world would be better off.

The car looks about the same as ever; crappy and cheap. The windshield is pretty busted up, but the damage is on the passenger side so you can drive just fine. Under the hood, you find the entire engine covered in sand; if you don't clean it, it'll be completely totaled in five-thousand miles. You just hope it still starts.

It does. You're almost disappointed.

On the road again. You settle into a familiar monotony, as miles and miles of nothing stretch on eternally, views of endless expanse in all directions, the quiet that sets in as the sound of the engine fades into the background.

You've never liked the quiet, it's always when the ghosts of your past are loudest.

Screaming, gunshots, police dispatch reports multiple homicides, teeth cracking against cement, begging you through a black hood, the perfect silence of a razor slicing flesh, blood splattering, screaming, screaming.

You don't want to deal with this right now. You click on the radio to try and drown it out.

"Aaaamaaazing Graaaace, how sweeeet, thou-


Tssshhhhhshh..."the killings seems to have been the work of a-


Shhhhhhzzzzzzzzshhhhh... on a dark desert highway, cool wind in my hair. Warm smell of colitis, rising up through the air. I looked ahead in the distance, and saw a shimmering light, my head grew heavy and my sight grew dim, I had to stop for the night.

Good enough.

You drive for hours on end, the familiar tunes of New-Wave pop fading into the backdrop of noise, your senses growing numb to the unchanging landscape of red sand and stone, punctuated only by the odd messa or rock formation. Power lines run parallel to the road, their wooden poles shooting past the window, one after another, never ending. The road stretches forward like a black scab marring the desert, you follow it to the horizon, but your eyes meet something in the distance.

Far ahead of you, in the shadow of a messa, what look like buildings dance in the heat waves. Ten minutes later, you pass by a road sign: 'Welcome to Silent Sands!'.

You've never heard of the town, but it looks fairly big, so you assume it has all the essential amenities. Checking your watch: it's 6:48 PM. You're too tired to keep running. You want to sleep in an actual bed tonight, and eat actual food. They probably have a pharmacy as well, meaning you could get some more painkillers. And if you're willing to take the risk of staying an extra day or so, you could possibly get the car fixed up.

You're definitely stopping. But what, if anything, are you going to do before finding a place to stay the night?
No. 944802 ID: 977456

Find a place to stay for the evening. Seriously, you couldn't be more wrecked if you tried. Get yourself outta that car and into a coma.
No. 944899 ID: 3ce8ff

yea as much as this is a quest and that probably means something is wrong with this town one way or another, that needs to be a later problem so the current exhaustion problem doesn't make all future problems that much worse.
No. 944911 ID: 8bb2fa

Oh god damnit. I suppose obvious tropes are obvious, then. Hmm... Very well. You may proceed completely spoiling my ingenuous and totally original, never before attempted, very organic plot arc.
No. 944981 ID: 3ce8ff

I mean you could just have this be a town (then have the NEXT town be different or whatevs =P)
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