Chapter Text
How Is It Made?
The video, informative but ultimately just irritating right now, drones on. It annoys the driver, who sits in his designated seat behind the steering wheel, and stares at a patch of grass. Rather, what is on the grass.
Stay with me.
On the grass is a carcass. A furry rodent of some kind, split open and rotting, bugs buzzing around it and enjoying their meal. The driver can tell the creature departed not recently, but not so long ago. No scavengers have arrived to pick at the bones. Just the bugs.
The driver, a failure in all he does, is annoyed for a lot of reasons. His name is Chase Brody, and it seems like the world has decided that he, Chase, must pay for the sins of all. First and foremost, his absurdly expensive subway sandwich is untouched, sitting on the center console. He had set up a video on his phone and then took two bites before noticing the dead animal directly in his line of sight. It killed his appetite, much like how something had killed it.
The video was irritating him because he needed silence to process the many stressors on his monkey brain. However, he also hated silence. Processing these stressors was difficult on a good day, and today was not a good day, sandwich and dead raccoon-possum thing aside. He had been driving on the highway when he felt the pangs of hunger. He had a sandwich on his passenger seat and the middle of nowhere was as good a place to enjoy it as any. It wasn’t like he had anywhere better to be.
He’d pulled over, set up his video, and had taken two bites, as aforementioned. He’d heard a strange pop along with the crunch of gravel when he pulled his car to the side, but what that was hadn’t quite registered until just now. He took a deep breath, half to self soothe (although it didn’t work) and half because he didn’t wanna breathe the rotting creature air, then opened his car door. He leaned out, risking a look directly down. His front tire looked fine, if you considered punctured with the largest chunk of glass he’d ever seen to be fine.
Some drunk— a truly useless waste of space, a self centered asshole, had left half of a liquor bottle sitting upright. His poor tire had gone right over it and was rapidly leaking air. He felt his car gradually sink forward, as if it were waiting for him to acknowledge the glass before the tire actually went flat. He stared at it like he could will the hole to close itself up and reinflate. He couldn’t, and his dead eyed staring only wasted the precious air he had sucked in and held in his mouth moments prior.
Not unlike his tire, he had to exhale eventually. And he did. He pulled himself back into his car and shut the door, but not before taking a big gulp of air and getting the Roadkill particles right in his lungs.
He grunted, slapping the steering wheel. He missed the wheel. It honked, and he yelped girlishly. He was immediately humiliated and entirely glad that the creature ahead was dead and didn’t witness his pathetic display. And that just made him feel like an asshole, glad that poor mammal had met a clearly painful end just so he wouldn’t embarrass himself. And this was all happening to him because he was too impatient to wait—no, he HAD to pull over and eat that sandwich, which he really didn’t even want anymore. God forbid he wither away, what would the world do without him?
The irony was not lost on him, and it also did not amuse him.
...
And the video was still playing. He grunted, grabbed his phone more aggressively than he had to (yeah, break that too, you big oaf) and paused it. He closed the window for good measure, and spied something big and red in the corner of the YouTube app. 1. 1 notification.
It was childish to be excited about that, but if he needed anything (besides a new tire and someone who knew how to change tires) it was a win right now. A boost of his self esteem via validation by strangers on the internet was just as good.
Brandon2036 commented on your video.
He tapped on the notification. A like was good, but a comment was infinitely better.
“Anybody still watching in 2018?”
It wasn’t that he was ungrateful, or expected to be highly praised for his videos where he shot a nerf gun at a plastic box or threw teabags into a cup and screamed. He was thankful for every “first!” and bored 8 year old that commented under his videos, but this was entirely not validating at all. It just made him feel old, really. The fact that he’d received the comment 9 hours ago and it had not a single like (signifying that no, nobody but Brandon2036 was still watching in 2018) just made him feel worse.
How many more hits could he take? Probably not many more. He estimated one, maybe two more, before he joined that raccoon thing.
He heard a creak and felt his car slump forward. He groaned, resting his forehead on the steering wheel, more careful not to honk this time, lest the bugs judge him for his high pitched shrieking, too.
In all honesty, the video had pissed him off not for the subject matter or the fact it kept playing with zero sympathy for his plight, but because that guy was Successful. Loads more successful than him. He posted twice a week—a consistent upload schedule. He slaved over photoshop (not a cheap subscription by the way) to make the perfect thumbnail, and debated with himself over transitions during editing for hours. He put SO much love and care into his videos, and this was all he got? A comment on a video from 2 years ago?
That guy didn’t have to sit in front of a dead raccoon and feel jealous. Jealousy, a disgusting and green feeling, like claws digging into his back, under his skin, taking root. Jealousy was all he felt these days. Jealous of couples, of those more successful (which seemed to be everyone), of a dead raccoon. At least that thing didn’t have to call roadside assistance at..
Jeez, what time was it? His car clock was busted. It worked in a way, it displayed numbers for sure, but were they accurate?
No.
His phone read 7:49. The sun was setting, and soon it would just be him and his flat tire and the dead raccoon and the fucking bugs.
He opened Chrome. Roadside assistance, he googled, and was helpfully met with a little gray spinning circle. So he waited. And waited, and waited. The page dimmed and he tapped to bring his phone back to life. The tab refreshed and started loading all over again.
“Fuuuuck,” He eloquently said.
Then his screen went dim with a hum. Dead.
“Fuuuuuuuck!” He grunted, less eloquent and more orcish. He slammed open his glove compartment and rummaged through papers that were important a few months ago when he’d stuffed them there and forgotten about them, but were nothing more than junk now. His fingertips brushed a bottle. Warm, but full, sloshing with a pleasant, tempting amber liquid.
Then he felt the blessed smooth plastic of his phone charger. He plugged it into his car, then grabbed the exposed wiring at the end and jammed it into his phone. The charger was half plastic, half copper wires, and a lot of tape. It had seen better days, but then again, so had he. Sometimes he felt like that sad withered old charger was all he had left.
He frowned. He’d thought more depressing things though.
He heard a buzz and almost perked up. Unfortunately, It was not his phone immediately whirring to life to get him off this empty highway as soon as possible, because why would it be? He looked around. No other electronics in the car but the car itself, since he couldn’t afford them, and the check engine light was always blinking but it never buzzed, so..
There it was. On his steering wheel, he spotted it. A fluffy bodied, big eyed bee. Significantly more pleasant than the flies and mosquitoes and maggots outside, but it still had no business in his car. He hissed, rolled down the window to let it out, and caught a whiff of the agonizing scent outside. He wretched and rolled it back up, then focused on the bee. Trying to coax it out while that scent burnt the hair off his face was not an option. He tried to be kind, but he was not that self sacrificing. Not for a bee. He thought he deserved to be a little selfish today, anyways.
So, despite his better judgment, he tried to squish it. He would usually be a lot kinder, but again, terrible day and zero patience for buzzing creatures in his ear. He clasped both hands like a dome and lowered them over the wheel, and then... Clap!
Ouch!
“Fuck!” He hissed. His third swear and third word overall in the last thirty minutes. He should win a prize for this witty wordplay. He opened his palms. The viscera of a formerly buzzing little friend covered his hands—blood he could never wash off. Most importantly, the little guy’s stinger was directly between his pinky finger and his ring. Imbedded in that needlessly sensitive sliver of skin and nerves. He hissed, wiping his hand on his jeans, then bringing it up to his face and trying to pick the stinger out. With a lot more ‘fucks’ and ‘fucking bee’ (very creative) he managed to get it out. Angrily, he flicked it away. It landed on his sandwich.
He stared at it, the now Truly tainted thing, and just sighed. He slumped forward over his wheel and reached for the glove compartment, for the one thing in this damn car that couldn’t be tainted or betray him, for that precious amber liquid—
Another buzz. His phone this time, surely. It vibrated against his thigh. He shot up, alcoholism briefly forgotten, and tapped his foot anxiously against the brake pedal, murmuring “come on, come on.”
He didn’t wanna be stuck out here in the dead of night. It seemed to be that he was fated to, anyways, if the darkening sky was to be believed. His car’s clock wasn’t any help, reading 2:73. Somehow.
He turned on his high beams. As briefly comforting as the thought of some beefy jock in a semi truck slamming into him at full speed and wiping the self pitying thoughts from his brain the moment his face made contact with the airbag (or his windshield, since he wasn’t wearing a seatbelt) was, he was too afraid of the dark to sit there waiting for that to maybe happen.
It was childish, yes, to be afraid of the dark at the ripe old age of 35, but it wasn’t like it was an old fear he’d never conquered. Little Chase was never afraid of the shadows and whispers at night. No, Little Chase spoke back to them. He’d affectionately named those whispers he heard at night when he was bored out of his mind and couldn’t quite fall asleep “Echo”. Then Little Chase got to meet a nice doctor who diagnosed him with ‘Imaginary Friend’ rather than Schizophrenia like his parents suspected.
Well, big Chase had recently discovered that those shadows and whispers (although the whispers were few and far between now) scared the shit out of him. So, high beams it was. He squinted at the bugs on the carcass again, and there were more of them now. At least someone was enjoying their fucking meal.
So. After a lot more “fuuucks” in various dulcet tones, he managed to get Google to tell him the number for Roadside Assistance. And he called. And waited.
“Due to the high number of calls, you are being placed on a waitlist. Your position in line is, 13. Expected wait time for an operator is, two hours.” The robotic female voice said.
Chase stared at the ceiling of his tilted car, setting his phone down. How could this possibly get any fucking worse?
The most aggravating, grating pop-jazz mix began to play over his phone's speakers.
Chase reached over and hung up.
Okay. Big Chase needed to man up. He got out of his car with a big puff of air, (immediately a mistake, because he retched) and hurried over to the trunk of his car. He popped it open, holding his nose and breathing shallowly through his mouth.
Papers. Lots of them. Some clothes. A few empty bottles. One that wasn’t so empty that he couldn’t help but zone out at. No, it was probably hot. He had one that was pleasantly warm instead, waiting in his glove box..
No! Focus, Chase!
He rummaged for a bit and found a hidden compartment, with.. A Spare Tire! Maybe God hadn’t forgotten about little old Brody after all. Now all he needed was a jack, a way to undo those lug nuts, and knowledge on how to change a tire. Once he had those things, he’d be back on the road in no time. He walked back over to the flat and kneeled to inspect it. That seemed to be what most guys who were good with cars did. They stared at it for a while.
So he did. And yep, it was definitely flat.
Great. He hadn’t learned a damn thing. Except now, lower to the ground, he found that he was significantly closer to the Smell of Death. He cringed and decided to return to his trunk for a game plan. He put his hand on the concrete to push himself up, and landed on something else. Something jagged, part of the same something that had punctured his tire. It now punctured his hand! His beautiful trickshotting hand!
“Fffffff—“ No, Chase. You’re better than this. Don’t feed into the stereotypes, you’re more than a swearing Irishman.
“Fffuckin’ hell!” He hissed.
Apparently he wasn’t. He threw himself back into his car, shut the door, and fumbled for the overhead light. He had to click it three times for it to turn on. He looked at his hand. Cherry red dripped down the smooth skin of his wrist, a small shard of green glass protruding from the center of his palm. First the bee, now this? What did God have against his fucking hand?
No. There was no god here.
He hissed, pulling it out and flicking it onto his passenger seat to dispose of later. That wouldn’t come back to bite him in the ass, surely. He balled his hand into a fist, anger faintly fading as he watched the stream continue down into the dip of his inner elbow and come to a slow stop. It wasn’t that deep, it would clot and stop being a problem soon enough. Unless he got an infection from roadside highway glass. That would probably stay a problem for the foreseeable future.
He felt the rumble before he heard it. His first thought was naturally, the worst, since today was looking to be comically terrible. An earthquake, it had to be. That, or a sinkhole. Or both. And then a meteorite that would land directly on his fucking crotch.
Then he heard it. The purr of an engine. He risked a peek in his rear view mirror, and there she was. A beautiful, sleek black truck on wheels way too tall. Not to crash into him, but to Save him. For where there was a massive truck on bigger wheels was sure to be a man with a tiny penis but plenty of car knowledge. He opened his door and got out, covering his nose with his bloody hand and waving frantically. Please stop. Please stop instead of swerving to hit me, or worse, just driving onwards and leaving me to rot.
The truck slowed, then pulled over in front of his own car, obscuring the dead critter and causing the bugs to scatter.
“Oh, yes, yes, finally,” Chase gasped, pulling his hand off his face to clasp it with the other one like some kind of thankful little altar boy.
The man that emerged from the truck was big. Tall and broad shouldered with a moustache that was thick and looked more like a comb or a hairy caterpillar than facial hair. He had on shades despite it being nearly dead of night now, and walked dick first, hands on his belt.
“Y’look in need of some.. assistance,” He grunted in an accent that was probably southern.
“Yes,” Chase nodded, too grateful to say what he really wanted to say, which was ‘No, I’m just letting my car lay rims first on the side of the road because she’s tired and needs a break.’ “My tire’s flat, and— Roadside assistance is a piece of shit, two hours, they said- it’s bullshit,” He swore rapidly. “I have a spare, but I-“ I’m a grown man who doesn’t know how to change a tire and I have none of the tools for that, so can You help Me?
“Bullshit,” The maybe southern guy echoed. He had a brown mullet and a big black cowboy hat. It seemed to Chase like he was trying too hard to sell the southern thing. Or maybe he was just very patriotic?
Chase nodded. “Right?”
And then he waited. He couldn’t quite see this guys eyes, which didn’t bother him as much as it should. He generally took a glance and then never looked anyone in their eyes ever again. He wasn’t rude—he’d focus his gaze on the bridge of their nose or forehead or even chin, sometimes, but eyes were too intimate. The point being, he couldn’t tell if this guy was trying to make eye contact or if it was a staring contest or if this guy was even awake.
“So..” Chase tried again, hoping to prompt some thought into Cowboy’s brain.
“I.. need help..” Chase spoke slowly, even nodding. Hoping this would do something— anything.
“With yer car?” The maybe cowboy nodded at it, still leaning back with his hips uncomfortably thrusted outwards, sniffing the air.
“..Yeah. My tire. I can’t- I need help changing it.” Chase frowned. Was this guy high? Drunk? God, he wished he could be drunk. Or at least as fucked up as this guy.
“Yeah, yeah. You got any money?” He asked.
Chase’s expression was, for a brief second, entirely blank. He stared at him, trying to search those obscuring shades for something, anything. Was he going to be fucking mugged right now?
“Like.. to..” Chase didn’t want to just ask, ‘are you fucking mugging me right now?’ But he wasn’t sure what else to say.
“As payment. For changing yer tire.” Now it was cowboy’s turn to act like Chase was the dumb one, to talk slow and nod along.
“Oh!” Chase perked up. His blank expression shifted to a forced, awkward grin. Way to assume the worst. Was that technically profiling? Not all cowboys are outlaws, Brody. Very un-pc of you. He pat himself down, finding his wallet in the back of his jeans, and flipping through it. 2 dollars and a few loose coins. He’d spent the rest of his cash on the now inedible subway sandwich rotting in his car. “Uh..” He looked back up slowly.
“Ya got Cashapp? Apple Pay? Zelle?” Cowboy snorted.
Huh. This guy was really about his money. Chase slowly nodded, then grabbed his phone from inside the car. He opened up his bank app— 23$. Gas money, most likely. Maybe another subway sandwich, if he could swing it, which he probably couldn’t.
“I have tw—“ He spun the phone around to face the cowboy, who leaned down and squinted at the numbers before grunting and waving him off. Cowboy turned and walked dick first back to his truck, and Chase withered. Great. There went his salvation.
His southern salvation popped open his trunk and grabbed a jack.
Chase began to ramble. Less swearing this time, and more frantic thank yous and you’re saving my life, I would’ve died out here, to the maybe cowboy who was kneeling at the side of his car and pumping the jack. Chase took a step back when he caught a steely glare, choosing to grin and shut up. He watched the car finally lift back up to ‘not prone’ and grinned. Maybe today wasn’t entirely awful.
Cowboy got up, grabbed a wrench, glared at him again for seemingly no reason. Chase took another step back and looked away, turning to face the empty highway and the now set sun. Maybe he just didn’t like being watched while he worked. Chase whistled to the best of his ability if only to kill the dreaded silence.
“Ehem,” Cowboy said, more of a grunt than a clearing of the throat. Chase risked a glance and saw the tire removed, and Cowboy glaring expectantly. Standing now, phone out.
“Right, the spare,” Chase took a step back, and paused when Cowboy’s phone was thrusted into his face. Cashapp.
“Payment first.” he grunted again.
Chase’s face fell. What a sound business practice—get their tires off first, then get payment. His lug nuts were in Cowboys other fist, gripped tightly. His actual nuts were also metaphorically being gripped tightly. If he wanted to change his mind about the paying thing, he really couldn’t now. Also, Cowboy could just.. take his money and drive off. That was also an option.
Chase prayed for the best. He pulled out his phone, scanned the qr, and tapped around nervously all while Cowboy’s shaded glare burned a hole into the top of his head. “How much do I-“ he started, and his reply was another grunt. He sent 23. Cowboy waited for his phone to buzz, and only then did he gesture expectantly for the spare tire.
At least he had somewhat of a conscience?
Chase wrenched the spare out of the pile of papers and clothes and junk, shared a longing look with the hot but still appetizing bottle of liquor, and then brought the tire over. Cowboy popped it in, screwed in the nuts, and stood, yanking his jack out from under the car. It jostled and slammed against the ground and Chase’s grin was now entirely forced and not at all gracious.
“Thanks,” Chase said without feeling.
“Yeah. Thanks yourself.”
He watched Cowboy hop back in his truck and drive off. The carcass was now entirely mush, since Cowboy had parked right over it. Great. He got back in his car, took a deep breath, and decided that it would all be okay. He would get home with a functioning car and he was broke but that was okay. He looked over at the open glove box, which looked like a gaping maw. Like the most obvious trap he could think of without a big sign that said “free hugs” in red letters.
And yet he still reached in. He thought for a moment it might snap shut and bite him. It didn’t. He pulled out the bottle, his blessed relief—which he deserved after that interaction, and opened it. He took a long swig. Then another one, longer, after a quiet “fuck it.”
He sighed, sinking back into his seat. The warm sensation of liquid solace sank into his chest and he let his eyes close.
It was very dark. Darker than usual. Not because his eyes were closed though. When he opened them, he heard a dying whirr and saw his headlights go out in sync with the overhead light. His phone stopped charging. He blinked.
Oh.
Oh, his car just died.
While he was contemplating this, the events that led him here; the raccoon, the sandwich, his failing channel, the glass, his tire, his empty bank account, he heard something that would’ve been great to hear about 20 minutes ago rather than now that he had an open bottle in his hand.
Footsteps. A flashlight aimed into his car, and a cop, leaning down to make direct eye contact with him. “Y’alright, son?”
Chase stared at the cop with a look like he might’ve preferred for Cowboy to have just mugged him and stabbed him to death. Then the cop noticed the open bottle in his hand, and slowly narrowed his eyes. “..step out of the car for me, son.”
Chase slowly recapped the bottle and set it down, then opened the car door with a quietly muttered, “fuck.”