Tales From the Gas Station: Volume Four, page 1
part #4 of Tales From the Gas Station Series
Tales from the Gas Station: Volume Four
Jack Townsend
Townsend Writing Company
Table of Contents
Copyright
Prologue
Editors Note
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Pre - Epilogue
Epilogue
Copyright © 2022 Townsend Writing Company
All rights reserved.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and, frankly, pretty weird.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher. If you’re still reading this, have you had any water today? You should go drink some water. Stay hydrated. Love you.
“Tales from the Gas Station: Part Four” is part of the “Tales from the Gas Station” Continuum.
Cover design by Corbin Covher, 2022.
This book is for everyone who needs a little escape from reality every now and then.
Volume Four
Prologue
I received my settlement check by certified mail, along with a thick stack of paper covered in dense legalese. The lawyers and riddle-masters who crafted the document had clearly gone to great lengths to discourage anyone from actually reading it, but context made the message crystal clear: “So sorry for your loss; here’s some hush money.”
According to the Official Story™, there was an explosion at the chemical plant on the outskirts of town (something to do with faulty machinery from China). This devastating accident shook our community to its rotten core and left a dozen people dead—their bodies never to be recovered. Anyone who went looking for further details would find the specifics to be murky, inconsistent, and at times directly contradictory. But one thing was certain: the scope of this disaster went well beyond the blast radius.
First came the exodus. When the higher-ups decided it would be too costly to rebuild, the plant shut its doors for good. Any workers lucky enough to have not been blown up found themselves suddenly and indefinitely out of a job. Those who could afford to move away put in for transfers. Entire families disappeared seemingly overnight.
Then came the fallout. News broke that our town’s well water had been contaminated by chemicals the average person couldn’t pronounce. Shortly thereafter, reports trickled in of locals experiencing a slew of mysterious symptoms: headaches, memory loss, hallucinations, abnormal bleeding, eyeballs feeling “looser than normal,” failure to maintain an erection for more than thirty seconds… you know, the usual.
At last came the reckoning. People were already righteously angry (heck, half of the population of our town has “righteously angry” as a default setting), but once the crops and cattle started to die off in droves, folks took it one step further and got organized angry—which, around here, involves a lot less bureaucracy and a lot more pitchforks with firecrackers taped to the prongs.
Someone had to be held accountable. It only took a few death threats before the mayor accepted his role as sacrificial lamb. He resigned in disgrace and left town in the middle of the night, never to be seen again. There was a big kegger at the Baptist church to celebrate his exile, with cake and piñatas and even a flaming mayoral effigy.
Really, if you could look past the horrendous loss of human life, it was quite the exciting time around these parts. After all, nobody loves drama more than a bunch of bored townies. But once all the dust and lawsuits had settled, people lost interest, moved on, and found other things to be righteously angry about. There was some talk about building a memorial, but that project ended up on the backburner where it was promptly and ironically forgotten about.
In fact, if you didn’t know any better, it was almost like nothing ever happened. A few more empty trailers. A slightly smaller crowd at the tavern on weekends. Life recalibrated. The chemical plant explosion turned out to be just the latest in a series of what I’ve begun to call “Goldilocks Catastrophes”—tragic enough to temporarily disrupt the status quo, but not quite enough to draw any unwanted attention from the outside.
Like everyone else three months after the fact, I had more pressing concerns than some dumb old plant explosion. I had inherited a new business, and with it more problems than I could keep track of. It took every ounce of my focus to keep the doors open and the lights on. Sure, my misdiagnosed sleep disorder was a continuous source of mild-to-moderate anxiety. As was the fact that the new sheriff thought I was crazier than a kids’ cereal mascot. Also, there was that murder cult that had recently returned from the great beyond. And the two or three stalkers who were actively trying to kill me (unless, of course, those clown monsters got to me first). And let’s not forget the all-powerful outer god on its way to usher in a never-ending era of hell on earth…
But all those problems would need to take a number and get in line, because the gas station had a grocery order due, and nobody had taken inventory in weeks.
***EDITOR’S NOTE***
Hey y’all! Jerry here.
I’m super excited to announce that Jack is finally letting me help out with one of his books! My official title is “editor” but my tee shirt says “Security” and my fake ID says “Organ Donor.” The point is (~‾▿‾)~ I cannot be contained by labels!!!
Anyway, Jack told me he needed someone who was “slightly more detached from the situation” (guilty as charged, friendo!) to “fill in some of the narrative blanks” (whatever the hell that means). Ergo, you may see some notes from me sprinkled into the story here and there.[1]
That is all. Now back to the story!
XOXO
-Jerry
But don’t worry. Just like sorting laundry or paying taxes, reading these notes is 100% optional! [«]
Chapter One
I was standing in the center aisle with a clipboard and vendor sheet—literally minding my own business—when a fresh new problem demanded my attention from the doorway.
“Yo, Jackhammer! How’s it hangin’?!”
I looked up from the clipboard to see the source of the voice—a young man dressed in all camo—leaning into the building. With one hand he held onto the door frame, careful never to step across the actual threshold. With his free arm he gestured for me to come hither. I left the vendor sheet on our clearance pile of “gently expired” Los Poco Debitas cakes and approached him with the level of wariness often reserved for a ticking time bomb or a wet cat. As I got closer, the aggressive one-two smell combo of light beer and doe urine smacked me across the face.
“You know you’re not supposed to be here,” I said as simply and clearly as possible.
“Yeah, yeah, I know. ‘Banned.’ Whatever. Obviously, that’s why I’m standin’ right here.” He pointed at his feet. “Can’t get in trouble if you never step foot inside the building.”
While he wasn’t necessarily comporting with the spirit of the rule, I had to commend him for finally trying.
With an involuntary sigh, I asked, “What can I do for you this time, Travis[2]?”
“I just need my Skoal.” He handed me a slightly damp twenty-dollar bill. “Oh, and while you’re back there, get me a three-bucker, wouldja?”
A big part of me resented the idea of serving someone who would have gleefully dragged me to death behind his truck if circumstances had worked out differently. But it was the need-to-eat part of my brain making the executive decisions today, and I couldn’t afford to turn down any sales out of principle.
Once I reached the counter, he yelled, “Oh, and while you’re back there, pick out your finest porno mag!”
“Finest” is subjective, so I simply grabbed the closest one (“Furries Gone Wild: Yiff-mageddon”), made his change, and threw everything into a plastic bag. He grinned as I returned.
“Jackie-boy, if I didn’t already know you had a bum leg, I’d never guess it from watchin’ you walk.”[3]
“Thanks.”
“Also, you look like you’re getting’ taller. You been worki
“Nope.”
I’d known Travis since grade school. While we were never exactly friends, we did grow up together, and around here that’s almost the same thing. Still, I could tell was laying the flattery on pretty thick. This was either the groundwork for another apology attempt, or a way to make me drop my guard before he tried to kill me again.
“Hey why don’t you come outside for a sec so I can show you somethin’ in the parkin’ lot?”
So far, I was leaning towards the latter theory.
“You know, I would, but Oprah says to never follow a guy to a second location, and she seems to have life figured out.”
“Don’t say it like that! God! You make it sound like I want to hurt you or somethin’.”
“Do you?”
His cheeks turned red. He pulled himself out of the doorway, stood up straight, and waved his hands in the air. “What is your problem?!” The words exploded out of him, along with a fair amount of spittle. “What? Just because I made one teeny tiny mistake almost forever ago, that means you can’t follow me into an empty parkin’ lot? I’m tellin’ you, I’m reformed! Hell, I’d be willin’ to bet I’m one of your closest friends now!”
It was a bold move, playing the friendship card. But even if his proclamation were true, I didn’t put as much faith in “closest friend” status as he thought. In fact, if I had a nickel for every time one of my closest friends tried to kill me, I’d have ten cents.
“C’mon, dude.” His voice was calmer now. Pleading. “It’ll take just a second.”
Maybe it was boredom. Or curiosity. Maybe I just didn’t feel like putting the effort into arguing over “just a second.” Besides, we both knew if he wanted me dead, he could get the job done whether I left the building or not.
“Alright, fine.”
He clapped his hands, turned, and marched away, saying, “Come on and check this out!”
I stepped outside into the chilly, humid air. The sunset sky looked battered and bruised over the treetops. A heavy wind carried the strong smell of honeysuckle and seasonal allergies.
“Tada!” Travis cheered, waving his arms at the camo truck parked in front of us.
“It’s… a truck,” I said, trying to figure out what I was missing.
“It ain’t just ‘a truck,’ Jack.” He sounded like I’d genuinely hurt his feelings. “It’s a Ram 2500! With a 6.7-liter turbodiesel! And you know what that means.”
“It should be obvious that I do not.”
“Bought her with my settlement check from the plant. Still had enough left over to get myself a treat down at Miller’s guns. But this is the part I really wanted you to see.” He circled around to the tailgate. When I didn’t immediately follow, he patted his leg and dog-called, “C’mon, now!”
I cautiously joined Travis by the back of the truck and immediately saw what he was so eagerly trying to show me. There was a full window decal in the back of his cab displaying the name “Brylock” with angel wings on either side. Printed below that were the birth and death date of Brian Locke—one of the twelve victims of the plant explosion.
Travis removed his camo hat and said solemnly, “My boy Brylock is huntin’ deers with Jesus now.”
I didn’t know what to say, but “I’m sorry for your loss” felt like a safe enough option.
“Thanks, Jay. It’s been a hard few months. I’m man enough to admit that I cried. Yeah, I cried just like a woman after everything went down. I wept. Right in front of my dogs. They didn’t even care. Dogs are strong like that. What about you? Did you cry?”
I knew I had to be careful with my answer.
“Not in the literal sense, no.”
“Damn, that’s cold. You know, you are one emotionally-constipated son of a bitch.”
“Alright.”
“Anyway, I been thinkin’, Brylock wouldn’t have wanted us to go the rest of our lives bein’ mad at each other. He’d’a wanted us to figure this thing out. And I’m willin’ to bury the hatchet right here and now if you are.” He put his hat back on his head, extended his hand in my direction, and asked, “Whadaya say?”
My initial reaction was a strong urge to smack his hand away and remind him that we were not in some kind of perfectly balanced yin-yang of blame here. He tried to kill me. All I did was maybe bleed on his shoes a little. But then I remembered something important that changed my outlook completely.
What I remembered—what he never would—was that I had already given Travis my forgiveness. I forgave Travis (the real Travis) shortly before watching him get torn to bloody ribbons in a hail of gunfire. The man standing before me now, offering me his hand and begging for absolution, wasn’t the original Travis. He wasn’t even a human at all. He was a monster. A doppelgänger. A mimic, implanted with the memories and personality of my old classmate. Which led to an interesting philosophical quandary: if I could transfer blame to this duplicate, shouldn’t I transfer forgiveness as well? The answer seemed obvious. Stupid, but obvious.
“Alright,” I said with a shrug. “You’ve got a deal.”
His grin disappeared, replaced by a look of bewilderment as I took his hand and shook.
“What? Why? Shut up. Really? Why?” He narrowed his eyes. “Is this a trick?”
“No, I’m serious. You earned your pardon.”
“How?”
“Believe me when I say you don’t want to know.”
He showed off his tobacco-teeth and let out a high-pitched noise that was somewhere between a cackle and a “Yee-haw!” Then, he asked, “This mean I’m not banned no more?”
“I mean, you never really followed the ban anyway.”
“Sooo…?”
“So sure, consider the ban lifted.”
“Hot damn! You’re not gonna regret this decision.” He immediately followed that up with something to make me regret that decision: “I’m gonna be your best customer from here on out!”
“Wonderful.”
“But right now I gotta run. Me and the boys are gonna pour one out at Brylock’s grave and get shit-faced in his honor. You know, outta respect.”
“Of course.”
“Hey! You wanna join us?”
I couldn’t help but laugh at the audacity of inviting me to this graveyard smash. “Just for clarification, how many of the ‘boys’ came here with you to kill me a few months ago?”
“Oh, don’t worry about that. I’ll vouch for ya.”
“Hard pass. I still have to work tonight.”
“Alright, maybe next time.”
He stepped towards me and extended his arm, a gesture I recognized as the start of a goodbye hug. I never really thought of him as the hugging type, but oh well. Let’s just get this over with. I wrapped my arms around him and gave him a good, solid pat on the back. Fist closed. As casual as a hug between two former enemies can get. There. Not so bad.
“Uh. Thanks?” he said, before reaching out again and taking the plastic bag out of my hand. That’s when I remembered I’d been holding his purchases this entire time. He wasn’t going for a hug after all; he just wanted his stuff. God, I hope I didn’t just set a precedent here.
Travis reached inside the bag and pulled out the furry porn. “Here,” he said, handing the magazine back. “This was for you. I wanted you to treat yourself. On me.”
“Oh,” I said. “That’s very thoughtful?”
“Don’t mention it.”
“Happy to not.”
With that, he turned and climbed into his truck. I stood there and watched as he drove away, wondering if I should have said something different—if I should have told him the truth about what happened three months ago. But this version of Travis was happy with his ignorance and his borrowed life and his Ram 2500. Who was I to burst his bubble?
As he gunned his engine and pulled the truck around, I clocked the orange bumper sticker on his tailgate standing out in stark contrast against the camo—the words “Vote for Kieffer” printed on it in Comic Sans. I knew I’d probably need to figure out what that was all about. But that was a job for future-Jack. For now, I had a business to run, inventory to count, and a grocery order due.
