The National Primary Highway #22 was an old road, pot-marked and wrinkled and cracked as the path of its ancient bitumen winded along the many valleys and hills of the desert like a black river. Despite its age, the ride along it was smooth - it had held the passage of millions of vehicles before Arlo's beat-up hand-me-down of a lemon from the late 70s, appropriately colored in peeling canary yellow paint, and would probably hold millions more after. The cheap bobblehead in the image of an ear-to-ear grinning cowboy affixed to the sun-damaged dashboard barely bobbed its head as the lone vehicle cruised across the sands. Those sands were decorated with cacti, tumbleweeds, and massive outcroppings of red rock that jutted from the ground to cast long shadows as the sun neared the end of its travels. So was Arlo, as, according to the GPS app on his phone, his destination was only a couple of miles away.
Gasoline has been a dying fuel ever since a chunk of Antarctica the size of Wallonia splintered off from the ice shelf into the ocean, prompting the total illegalization of petroleum products, so there was no real reason for people to visit gas stations these days. Politicians might have finally done something to stop the systematic murder of the planet, but electric cars were still niche, not viable - so most people now don't drive. The man sighed, languidly raising a sun-tanned arm to flick the cowboy bobblehead into action for the umpteenth time today as his car sped to meet a billboard that garishly advertised his destination in marquee lettering: 'Shade in the Sand Fuelling Station.' After driving for six hours through the desert with nothing to arrest the eye save for the previously mentioned features, he welcomed the idea of a new sight, even if he had been dreading the journey's end. True enough, as his boxy glided around another hill of raised red rock, he spied some human construction - a modern(ish) looking windmill with black wires connecting it to a series of brown boxes that looked like buildings if Arlo squinted.
Those boxes were Arlo's property now - it was inherited, along with the car, in the will of some relative he vaguely knew. His father's brother's wife's sister's daughter had passed, leaving the man her assets for reasons that were never really explained to you; Arlo never knew her well, but she thought enough of him to bequeath him her old car, the gas station she managed, and...something else. It sat ominously in the passenger seat of the canary yellow lemon - a black notebook filled with old musty pages filled to the brim with gibberish and nonsensical, esoteric symbols written in red ink. "Here is your final endowment," Arlo remembered the lawyer saying, taking the notebook out of his desk's bottom drawer with all the care of a cardinal reading the results of who would become the next pope. "I apologize for the... eccentric nature of all of this. The deceased had included a supplement that you, the beneficiary, are bequeathed this separately from the estate executor."
After Arlo unwrapped the twine knot and failed to decipher what was inside the journal, he posed a question to the lawyer. "What should I do with this?"
The lawyer sniffed and readjusted his glasses. "The deceased, from, as far as I know, had included a note that it should be burned. But you're not obligated to do so - those 'instructions' were outside of the codicil's contents."
Arlo kept it - why would he destroy something someone thought so essential to give him after they had passed? Maybe he needed to learn how to read it, and he would have much free time to try out here in the desert. The fuzzy dice hanging from the rear-view mirror jostled along with the bobblehead as he hit a small divot in the asphalt, jolting the man out from his reverie and back into the present - the engine idled rough enough; he didin't want to make the car worse. The old machine didin't know how to deal with the new bio-gasoline that was now ubiquitous in the country, and its attempts to create combustion from it sped up the decline of the motor that should have withered away decades before Arlo was born. Eventually, the car slowed to a stop as the distance between Shade in the Sand shortened, the estate's beneficiary pulling off NPH 22 to stop just some yards away from the decrepit shack.
The setting sun was hidden behind a monolithic sign advertising Arlo's new property that encapsulated the canary car in the darkness. The estate's beneficiary parked the car, turned off the engine before it began sputtering, and stepped out in the dusty dry air the desert offered. Immediately, the city-dweller from the coast was hit by the heat his newly acquired abandoned business boasted, prompting a quick retreat back into the car's interior to retrieve a jug of water. He didin't want to be here - he wanted to be back home in his apartment, where he didin't have to put on the air conditioning because there was no chance in hell that it could ever get so hot. But Arlo couldn't go back to his apartment because he didin't own it anymore - along with the car, the fuelling station, and the notebook, the estate's beneficiary was also bequeathed his aunt-in-law's daughter's debts.
Those debts had been paid off, but having done so left no money for rent, groceries, utility bills, etc. Arlo's savings were gone, and his wage from his job wasn't enough to put a roof over his head for another month. Now he was in the middle of a desert next to a road no one used anymore. It was, interestingly enough, the lawyer's suggestion for him to be there. "I understand that the deceased's...'assets' left you in dire straits." The balding, bespectacled lawyer spoke in the closest tone a lawyer could muster that approached sympathy to the estate's beneficiary before he left his office. "I advise against recuperating by selling off the car and the gas station - no one is in the market for either these days. But people still use Highway 22, to some extent. Have you considered re-opening Shade in the Sand?"
"Asshole," Arlo stated to the wind as he leaned against the side of his car. He had no idea if the lawyer had intentionally encouraged him towards a plan he knew was stupid or if he genuinely thought it was a helpful idea, but regardless, Arlo could not help but feel doomed. This is a thought many people think these days, he supposed; having miles of land submerged by the encroaching coastline in an undisputable affirmation that humanity has failed in its stewardship of the planet had that effect on people. But Arlo was feeling doomed because he had no idea how to run his own business, especially not one that he was assuming had been run into the ground if the shabby looks of the place were anything to go by. This was his new home - for about two weeks, at the very least; he had fourteen days' worth of food and water in the backseat of the car, so he would either starve to death or make money to buy more. "Well, might as well go in..."
Sparks rained down from a fraying in the wires overhead Arlo as he languidly trekked through the sand-strewn parking lot to the shack. The doors were boarded up with wood that quickly came off from the hold their nails afforded them with minimal effort on the new owner's part. Opening the door revealed what Arlo had expected - a floor littered with trash, coated in grime, shopping carts and shelves lying on their sides, and walls that needed a new coat of paint. The estate's beneficiary breathed in the dust-clogged air and sighed, flicking the light switch on - only for nothing to happen. "Figures." He muttered as he turned around to look back outside - the wires led to the windmill, but it was a good ways away, and the heat was sapping his energy.
If there were a problem with the power, the place to fix it would be the source, but Arlo would do that later when it was dark and he had his stamina again. Instead, The new owner went behind the counter and sat on an old stool before pressing his palms into his face, silently terrified that he would die in this dirty, abandoned shack alone. He was interrupted from his thoughts by his phone buzzing in his pants pocket, letting out a jarring ringtone that echoed queasily on the shack walls. He took the phone out - he didin't know the number, but he answered it anyways; what else was he going to do? "Yo." Arlo mustered out.
"Mr. Atkins?" The voice was familiar, but Arlo couldn't think of a face to go with it. "This is Mr. Finch - of Black, Finch & Webb. We spoke about the addendum to the will some days ago?" Oh, him.
"Yes, it's me. Are you calling to congratulate me on my venture into the exciting world of motorist supply and convenience, Mr. Finch?" Arlo drummed his fingers along the counter, sarcasm dripping from every word in his voice.
"So you followed through with my suggestion, then? Good, good, that makes things...much easier, actually." The middle-aged man on the other end of the line let out a relieved sigh, which piqued Arlo's interest. "This is...highly irregular, but we've received an addendum...to the addendum. For all intents, it seems that this was mailed days before the deceased had become, eh, deceased. This might be good news."
"Oh?" Arlo didin't dare get his hopes up, but he shifted his position on his stool, his attention caught. "Such as?"
"Well, the deceased has included provisions for hiring a manager if the gas station re-opens; the former manager, who has been living on the premises. Or, under the premises, really. The basement is the residence of...let's see here..."
Choice 1: "...A Miss...Twilight Sparkle."
Choice 2: "...A Jack Apples. Oh, wait, I mean...Applejack. One word."
Choice 3: "...A Miss... Rainbow Dash."
Choice 4: "...ah, I'm so sorry, I'm looking at the wrong paper."
Choice 5: The lawyer's connection cuts out
Gasoline has been a dying fuel ever since a chunk of Antarctica the size of Wallonia splintered off from the ice shelf into the ocean, prompting the total illegalization of petroleum products, so there was no real reason for people to visit gas stations these days. Politicians might have finally done something to stop the systematic murder of the planet, but electric cars were still niche, not viable - so most people now don't drive. The man sighed, languidly raising a sun-tanned arm to flick the cowboy bobblehead into action for the umpteenth time today as his car sped to meet a billboard that garishly advertised his destination in marquee lettering: 'Shade in the Sand Fuelling Station.' After driving for six hours through the desert with nothing to arrest the eye save for the previously mentioned features, he welcomed the idea of a new sight, even if he had been dreading the journey's end. True enough, as his boxy glided around another hill of raised red rock, he spied some human construction - a modern(ish) looking windmill with black wires connecting it to a series of brown boxes that looked like buildings if Arlo squinted.
Those boxes were Arlo's property now - it was inherited, along with the car, in the will of some relative he vaguely knew. His father's brother's wife's sister's daughter had passed, leaving the man her assets for reasons that were never really explained to you; Arlo never knew her well, but she thought enough of him to bequeath him her old car, the gas station she managed, and...something else. It sat ominously in the passenger seat of the canary yellow lemon - a black notebook filled with old musty pages filled to the brim with gibberish and nonsensical, esoteric symbols written in red ink. "Here is your final endowment," Arlo remembered the lawyer saying, taking the notebook out of his desk's bottom drawer with all the care of a cardinal reading the results of who would become the next pope. "I apologize for the... eccentric nature of all of this. The deceased had included a supplement that you, the beneficiary, are bequeathed this separately from the estate executor."
After Arlo unwrapped the twine knot and failed to decipher what was inside the journal, he posed a question to the lawyer. "What should I do with this?"
The lawyer sniffed and readjusted his glasses. "The deceased, from, as far as I know, had included a note that it should be burned. But you're not obligated to do so - those 'instructions' were outside of the codicil's contents."
Arlo kept it - why would he destroy something someone thought so essential to give him after they had passed? Maybe he needed to learn how to read it, and he would have much free time to try out here in the desert. The fuzzy dice hanging from the rear-view mirror jostled along with the bobblehead as he hit a small divot in the asphalt, jolting the man out from his reverie and back into the present - the engine idled rough enough; he didin't want to make the car worse. The old machine didin't know how to deal with the new bio-gasoline that was now ubiquitous in the country, and its attempts to create combustion from it sped up the decline of the motor that should have withered away decades before Arlo was born. Eventually, the car slowed to a stop as the distance between Shade in the Sand shortened, the estate's beneficiary pulling off NPH 22 to stop just some yards away from the decrepit shack.
The setting sun was hidden behind a monolithic sign advertising Arlo's new property that encapsulated the canary car in the darkness. The estate's beneficiary parked the car, turned off the engine before it began sputtering, and stepped out in the dusty dry air the desert offered. Immediately, the city-dweller from the coast was hit by the heat his newly acquired abandoned business boasted, prompting a quick retreat back into the car's interior to retrieve a jug of water. He didin't want to be here - he wanted to be back home in his apartment, where he didin't have to put on the air conditioning because there was no chance in hell that it could ever get so hot. But Arlo couldn't go back to his apartment because he didin't own it anymore - along with the car, the fuelling station, and the notebook, the estate's beneficiary was also bequeathed his aunt-in-law's daughter's debts.
Those debts had been paid off, but having done so left no money for rent, groceries, utility bills, etc. Arlo's savings were gone, and his wage from his job wasn't enough to put a roof over his head for another month. Now he was in the middle of a desert next to a road no one used anymore. It was, interestingly enough, the lawyer's suggestion for him to be there. "I understand that the deceased's...'assets' left you in dire straits." The balding, bespectacled lawyer spoke in the closest tone a lawyer could muster that approached sympathy to the estate's beneficiary before he left his office. "I advise against recuperating by selling off the car and the gas station - no one is in the market for either these days. But people still use Highway 22, to some extent. Have you considered re-opening Shade in the Sand?"
"Asshole," Arlo stated to the wind as he leaned against the side of his car. He had no idea if the lawyer had intentionally encouraged him towards a plan he knew was stupid or if he genuinely thought it was a helpful idea, but regardless, Arlo could not help but feel doomed. This is a thought many people think these days, he supposed; having miles of land submerged by the encroaching coastline in an undisputable affirmation that humanity has failed in its stewardship of the planet had that effect on people. But Arlo was feeling doomed because he had no idea how to run his own business, especially not one that he was assuming had been run into the ground if the shabby looks of the place were anything to go by. This was his new home - for about two weeks, at the very least; he had fourteen days' worth of food and water in the backseat of the car, so he would either starve to death or make money to buy more. "Well, might as well go in..."
Sparks rained down from a fraying in the wires overhead Arlo as he languidly trekked through the sand-strewn parking lot to the shack. The doors were boarded up with wood that quickly came off from the hold their nails afforded them with minimal effort on the new owner's part. Opening the door revealed what Arlo had expected - a floor littered with trash, coated in grime, shopping carts and shelves lying on their sides, and walls that needed a new coat of paint. The estate's beneficiary breathed in the dust-clogged air and sighed, flicking the light switch on - only for nothing to happen. "Figures." He muttered as he turned around to look back outside - the wires led to the windmill, but it was a good ways away, and the heat was sapping his energy.
If there were a problem with the power, the place to fix it would be the source, but Arlo would do that later when it was dark and he had his stamina again. Instead, The new owner went behind the counter and sat on an old stool before pressing his palms into his face, silently terrified that he would die in this dirty, abandoned shack alone. He was interrupted from his thoughts by his phone buzzing in his pants pocket, letting out a jarring ringtone that echoed queasily on the shack walls. He took the phone out - he didin't know the number, but he answered it anyways; what else was he going to do? "Yo." Arlo mustered out.
"Mr. Atkins?" The voice was familiar, but Arlo couldn't think of a face to go with it. "This is Mr. Finch - of Black, Finch & Webb. We spoke about the addendum to the will some days ago?" Oh, him.
"Yes, it's me. Are you calling to congratulate me on my venture into the exciting world of motorist supply and convenience, Mr. Finch?" Arlo drummed his fingers along the counter, sarcasm dripping from every word in his voice.
"So you followed through with my suggestion, then? Good, good, that makes things...much easier, actually." The middle-aged man on the other end of the line let out a relieved sigh, which piqued Arlo's interest. "This is...highly irregular, but we've received an addendum...to the addendum. For all intents, it seems that this was mailed days before the deceased had become, eh, deceased. This might be good news."
"Oh?" Arlo didin't dare get his hopes up, but he shifted his position on his stool, his attention caught. "Such as?"
"Well, the deceased has included provisions for hiring a manager if the gas station re-opens; the former manager, who has been living on the premises. Or, under the premises, really. The basement is the residence of...let's see here..."
Choice 1: "...A Miss...Twilight Sparkle."
Choice 2: "...A Jack Apples. Oh, wait, I mean...Applejack. One word."
Choice 3: "...A Miss... Rainbow Dash."
Choice 4: "...ah, I'm so sorry, I'm looking at the wrong paper."
Choice 5: The lawyer's connection cuts out
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April 19
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