[b]AN ALLEYWAY IN FULLER PARK
6:31 PM[/b]

He'd settled on country, in the end, those familiar twings and twangs of the banjo and the guitar really knew how to set his soul at ease and let him settle in for the long haul of the night. He heard the police radio blaring about a blockade being set up, but he didn't care at this point. The other vigilantes could handle the bomb lobbing moron, he could just settle in until something worth his time came up... he did have that odd itch in his head, still, something that was telling, nay, demanding him to get out there and do something. But the comfort of the old leather seat and the dulcet tones of the music... it created this unique cocktail mixture of emotions inside him. He wanted to do something, but was too content to do anything... how did you cure something like th-

[b]BANG BANG BANG![/b]

"Wha! Whuh what? What?" Big Rig was stirred from the slight stupor he had settled into by a sound banging on his cabin door, shaking his head a bit as he returned to his senses. Was someone attacking his truck? Nah, those bangs didn't carry a loud enough sound to be a weapon of any kind, not even a small hammer or something... no, chances were, it was someone looking to bother him. And he didn't care for being bothered... of course, it depended on who it was. So, with his left hand, he reached down and hit the button to lower his window. He then used the same hand to grab his shotgun, Betty Boomstick, just in case this person got smart and tried to do anything whilst he was still a little dazed. He peered out over the window of his cabin, looking down.

...the fuck was he looking at? Some scrawny looking guy was standing there, bold as brass, looking up at him. He had a weird mask on, kinda reminded him of those stone statue faces you'd seen carved into pillars and artwork sometimes... with it's blank-ass eyes to boot. Other than that, the kid seemed kinda scrappy, that tattered trench coat and his generally batty attire... was this kid messing with him or did he just like to dress weird? Everyone needs a hobby after all.

"The fuck you want, kid? Can't you see how extraordinarily busy I am right now?" he barked at him gruffly, his welding mask muffling his voice slightly, but chances are his sharp tone would be further intimidating by the skeletal face painted over it.

"Aaaaaand that was track number 13 of 40 on our Country music countdown!" Squealed the radio announcer, a dullard of a man, just from the sound of him, and southern as could be. "Now, lets move onto track 12 wi-" Big Rig quickly shut him up by thumping the radio with his right hand to turn it off. 

"Ignore that." he mumbled. "Seriously, whatcha want, knocking on my door here?" He demanded to know, looking down on this resident weirdo.