There's a story here. A pretty grand yarn, that I happened to have lived through. Seriously, this isn't a little campfire fright for you to listen to while you vomit s'mores, and I promise, it's not made up. It happened three hours ago, during the drive here.
   This morning, I got up and checked my text messages. Of course, you know I was planning on coming here tonight, so that's what I was looking for. Didn't have anything from you guys, but there were a lot from an unrecognized number. The curious man I am, I helped myself to them (hoping maybe a girl from my high school days was wondering about a little moonlight rendezvous with a bottle of decadent wine from a respectable year).
   Obviously, that didn't happen. Otherwise, I'd be balls deep in a cheap motel on the lower east end of Sermico county, instead of reminiscing the most gruesome time of my life with you fine gentlemen. It's not that I don't love you guys but come on... Trim is trim.
   Right, the texts.. There were upwards of twenty waiting in my inbox, all from the same number. Each one was a little, obscure question, almost to the point of being timid. Things like: "do u... like pasta?" and "wuts yor favorite... color?" Yeah, it even had those weird pauses, as if the person that sent them was taking dry gulps while typing, and felt the need to exhibit his thirstiness. Here, take a look...
   I texted him back with a brief threat. Something along the lines of "I'll remove your scrote-bag", but that's speculation at this point. I had to delete a few messages because my phone's memory was full.
   On the road, there was hardly a car to be seen. That's why I hate highways, man. Sometimes, shit is ghostly and abandoned, and all you've got are a couple of christian rock stations and a Brian DiCamillo bobblehead on your dash to keep you company. "Wait, they don't make th-" Shut the fuck up.