The driver of the terra cotta F150 (faded from its days the sun) seems to be a gregarious fellow.
“Don’t worry, I always love to help out another human being in need,” he assures you. “You can hop in the back with Señora Morales. And again, don’t worry, we have plenty of highway bingo cards to go around.”
The way he told the last joke didn’t sound like he knew how to tell one at all, but you climb in anyway and, sure enough, there are car bingo sheets and a couple pencils rolling around. The passenger’s seat is taken up by a very large man who looks like he’s balancing between keeping cool with the window rolled down and trying to fall asleep. The Mexican woman in the back doesn’t speak English and her three-year-old little girl avoids you like anyone of her circumstance would avoid the Arizona border patrol.
You figure out that you’re still somewhere in South Dakota when you make the first stop in one of many small burgs that pop and then vanish on the highway. Along the way, the driver picks up, besides an inventory box of Chick-O-Sticks to pass around, some more down-on-their-luck guests including: an octogenarian farmer from Pennsylvania whose tractor broke down while trying to visit the Pacific Ocean before he dies, an ostracized hockey player wanting to catch up with his sour mates in Vancouver, a whore who was dumped on the side of the road the night before in her underwear, and an escapee from an insane asylum.
If you keep on truckin’, go to page 113.
If you think it’s getting overcrowded, go to page 20.
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