The ratty ass old Lincoln made for, surprisingly, quite a comfortable sleeping arrangement. That is, until some fucking soccer mom cunt in a mini-van tore past him, spraying the car with gravel and filling the air with dust. Not exactly an ideal alarm clock. Still, the Lincoln was the closest he'd been to sleeping inside for quite a while, so he muttered a few curses under his breath, of course, but all in all, he'd slept well. He was grateful for being out of reach of the elements, if only for a moment. 

He had followed his dirt road of choice for quite a while, but the momentary jolt of energy the snap decision afforded him wore off quickly. In all fairness, he [i]was[/i] about to fall asleep at the wheel before the explosion inspired him to take an unplanned (and frankly, rather impulsive) turn onto some desolate, fucked up "road" that probably didn't even have a name. He pondered his rash decision for a bit, wondering if his impulse had led him to some sort of--

"I need a goddamn cigarette," he said aloud, his subconscious rudely interrupting his musings. The car smelled like smoke, but he was unsure if it was the previous owners habit or the engine. Come to think of it, after boosting the ride, he hadn't really even thought to inspect the vehicle. He threw open the center console, revealing quite conveniently exactly what he was after. Not his preferred brand, but fuck it. Lighting something on fire and inhaling what happens is obviously not going to yield positive results, regardless. He rolled down the window (manually, piece of shit), pulled a zippo out of his jacket pocket, lit the cigarette, and continued his investigation of the center console.

Fuck yeah. A flask. He took a sip. Whiskey. [i]Double fuck yeah.[/i] And a wad of cash, all Benjamins, that he didn't even bother to count.

[i]The fuck is a dealer doing in this piece of shit?[/i] he thought. [i]Wait...if it's a dealer, then...[/i]

He opened the glove compartment to find a fully loaded, solid black .45 revolver, and a SHIT ton of bullets. [i]Fucking score.[/i] Not that he needed a gun, really, but...the cowboy his childhood imagined him to be had always wanted one. [i]Just call me Maxwell,[/i] he thought. He pointed the weapon at no-one, menacingly, and ran through a few of his childhood hero's most memorable lines:

"Imps!"

"Pussyfootin'!"

As he chuckled to himself, suddenly the soccer mom tore past again, going the opposite direction, and looking VERY confused. He'd finished the cigarette, so he rolled the window back up (manually, piece of shit) to escape the dust cloud.

"Fuckin' crazy ass bitch. The fuck is so important this early?"

His childlike revelry having been spoiled for the moment, he took another swig of the flask, coaxed the Lincoln into starting again, and continued down his path from the night before. He drove for quite a ways, listening to some whack-ass mix-tape the previous owner undoubtedly got at a gas station for a couple bucks and a joint. It was terrible, but even so, catchy. You know, in that sort of ironic "this-is-the-worst-attempt-at-witty-lyricism-I've-ever-heard-but-it-will-hopefully-at-the-very-least-make-for-a-semi-humorous-reference-later-winky-face" kind of way. 

And then, there they were. The tents. Fuck. He hadn't thought ahead this far. 

But they were there, waiting, undeniably present. 

So what to do, presently, about these...present...

...tents?...