Wally's Wonderland

Chapter 1

Route 50, Nevada.

The loneliest road in America.

An ongoing highway of dusty dark-grey pavement on a saber-bush-sprinkled desert. The blazing sun is high. Everything is dead and lifeless. Not much activity happening. Not a vehicle in sight, no people, nothing. Just a few tumbleweeds rolling about in the distance.

But then, coming out of the ground, is a kangaroo mouse. The little critter hops around the desert, and onto the road. It sniffs and looks in every direction.

Suddenly, a gigantic round piece of hard rubber comes running over the mouse. Its bones get crushed, leaving nothing but a bloody furry puddle of what's left of its body.

What ran over the little rodent was a tire, belonging to a jeep wrangler, camouflaged and cruising at 60 MPH, leaving a large dust trail. Whoever's driving this thing is having a good time. All seems exciting and astounding when...

KA-BOOM!

All four of the jeep's tires blow out. It spins around haphazardly, before careening to a stop. Skid marks emblazon the asphalt.

The jeep's door creaks open, and a boot steps onto the concrete ground. Out comes a peculiar-looking man. A man nobody would dare fuck around with. A body that rivals Arnold Schwarzenegger's, a bald head, a goatee, and wearing a leather jacket and sunglasses.

He bends down, checks the tires. They're completely shredded.

He heads back along the highway, trying to find what the problem was. Nothing's out there. Whatever it was, could've just been a few rocks.

The man goes back to his jeep and reaches into the cabin. He searches the flatbed, finds a six pack of soda. He sits down on the hood, cracks a can. He takes a sip as he waits for a possible pick-up.

An hour has passed, and five empty cans are lying on the pavement. The quiet drifter hasn't moved. He continues to wait, drinks the last of his soda and throws the can away.

Soon, a mirage appears in the distance. The man hops off the hood, trying to get a better view. As it gets closer, he sees that it's a rusty old tow truck. Its metal hook dangles crazily as it zooms at 50 MPH towards the drifter.

He stays perfectly still, staring down at the truck. Just as it reaches him, the emergency brake screams. The truck does a 180. The hook swings, nearly smacking the man in the face. He doesn't flinch.

The dust clears. The tow truck's growling engine dies. The drifter walks closer to it and peers into the pitch-black windows. He can't see inside. Finally, out from the truck steps a short, portly man, wearing a worker's cap and a greenish-grey jacket. His name is Jeff Lynch. He stares at the unfazed man.

"You've got no idea what you're in for." Jeff says in a gruff voice.

Jeff walks over to the jeep, and hooks it onto his tow truck. He gets into the driver's seat, while the drifter hops into the passenger seat. With the jeep safely secured, they drive through the desert.

The quiet drifter glances out the window the whole way through, admiring the scenery, or lack thereof. Jeff chats with him, discussing random things that don't quite relate to the situation the drifter founded himself in.

Eventually, Jeff actually asks:

"So what brings you out here in the middle of Nevada?"

The drifter doesn't respond, still looking out the window.

"Ah, I get it, you're one of them silent folk. Not very talkative, and don't give a damn." Jeff finally says. "And ya know what, that's alright, you seem like a fine ol' guy to me."