Tales from the Gas Station: Volume One (Tales from the Gas Station, #1)

by Jack Townsend

The owners had asked me not to park my own vehicle around front because they felt the sight of it was “too depressing.” My chariot of choice was based on budget over comfort--a piece of crap 1990 Nissan Altima.

Whether or not you are a hallucination is absolutely none of my business, and I’ll leave that up to you to decide.

hot dogs are not sandwiches (they are, in fact, American tacos).

Without memories, we’re nothing but empty vessels.

Everybody gets one Kieffer murder mulligan,

And at the five hour and thirty-minute mark on “night sounds from the jungle to fall asleep to 4,” somebody dropped in a maximum volume audio clip of a man screaming “Leroy Jenkins,” which just about gave me a heart attack.

I acknowledge that you, as the reader, have already worked out that I would somehow be rescued. I, on the other hand, did not have such a benefit.

(The pain meds didn’t list memory loss as a side effect, or maybe they did and I just forgot).