[Anarchy 1] Ford vs Muir vs Evermore

Blood and Brains

His hair was matted with blood.

A puddle of rainwater had begun to form underneath his neck, ice-cold against the skin. More droplets of rain splashed off his chest and stomach, making the muscles underneath tighten and increasing the effort required to breathe.

He lay still.

The blood oozed slowly from the wound on his head; the wound that lay just below the hairline. The cut on his nose sizzled with pain each and every time a bead of rain fell near, and the side of his head throbbed with the memory of the fist that had hit it.

He lay still.

He lay still, alone in an alleyway amongst a pool of blood and rainwater, his faded black jeans and torn brown boots the only answer he could give to the cold of the night.

Murray Muir opened his eyes.

He was light-headed from the loss of blood; that was good. He liked feeling like this. In his mind, the loss of feeling helped enhance his thinking process; he could ignore the pain and the stresses of the physical, and focus almost completely on the mental… the side of him he thought most dangerous.

Murray turned his head and looked to the side. His denim jacket sat crumpled in a heap beside a dumpster around a meter away, soaked completely through with rainwater. It hadn’t been raining when he first hit the ground. Had he lay here that long? It had barely seemed a minute.

He hadn’t been unconscious, he had simply been… thinking.

Murray rolled himself over, and then pushed himself up onto his knees, looking down at the pink mixture of blood and water that had conjugated where his head had been seconds before. For a moment, he stared at the bloodied puddle; his face expressionless as the blood from his wound trickled down his face, the red of the blood a stark contrast to the violent purple of his eyes. Abruptly, he stood up.

He walked over to where his jacket sat, and started rummaging through the pockets.

He found it where he had last placed it, wrapped up tightly in the soggy remains of a document that had once looked important. This was entire purpose of this exercise, the spoils of war.

A smartphone.

He relocated it to the back pocket of his jeans, tossed his jacket over his shoulder, and made for home.

Earlier today it had belonged to a middle-aged black man. A small-town lawyer, judging by the way he was dressed. All it had taken was a slight barge of the shoulder, and a pinch of choice words, and soon enough Murray had the guy chasing him down the backstreets. When he had run far enough, all that was left was a bit of well-timed, discreet pick-pocketing, and a high tolerance for pain.

Pain.

Pain was something that had never frightened Murray; he saw it as simply a part of life. It was unavoidable, nothing to be afraid of, and in some cases it was even to be embraced. Like today…

Murray aimed a soft kick at his front door. The catch on the door had long ago rusted away to nothing, and the door creaked open for Murray to enter.

The house was a hovel.

What had once been a bedroom was now a pile of rubble; bricks and wood were spread over the floor in uneven piles, sourced from the holes in the walls which were no doubt constructed by some lunatic with a sledgehammer. The living room wasn’t much better. The old, dark carpet was worn away to the extent that the half-rotted floorboards were visible in various spots throughout the room. The only furniture was an ancient moth-eaten cloth armchair, a rusty old weights bench in the corner, and an old oak dresser that sat beside the entrance to what was once a kitchen, but was now a 5-star hotel for rats.

He lived here not through necessity, but by choice. It was a means to keep himself on edge, a way to train his mind into a state of constant alert, and a method to harden his resolve to achieve what was rightfully his.

Recognition.

Murray flung his jacket onto the dresser, sank back into his armchair, and then reached back into his pocket to pull out the smartphone. It was a touch-screen, Samsung by brand. He flipped it over and slid off the back cover, removing the battery and then taking out the SIM card to flick it away; it wouldn’t do well for the phone to be blacklisted.

He reassembled the phone, held in the power button, and waited for it to switch on.

Its previous owner had been an idiot. He had so much personal pride that it had only taken a slight insult to provoke him to anger, and his inability to control that anger made him more idiotic still. He had blinded himself to what was really happening. When he would discover that his phone was missing, he would think that he had lost it. He would never expect that the rough-looking Scotsman that he had oh-so-gloriously ‘taught a lesson’ earlier that day would have robbed him… and he would never know that he ‘beating’ he had dished out could have very easily been avoided.

The phone would need a charge cable. Murray turned it on its side, looking to see what kind of connection would be required.

Scratch marks.

All around the port for the charge cable were hundreds of small, silver scratch marks that could only have been made by the owner frequently missing it with the charger. Murray laughed into himself. The man had been a drinker… they always were.

In ASWF, there too would be drinkers. Drinkers and imbeciles who believed that marijuana actually helped the brain, rather than destroyed it. These idiots would make it all the easier for Murray, killing their brain-cells whilst he strengthened his – tipping the balance in the field of psychological warfare strongly in his favor.

The Samsung logo flashed across the screen.

It was time to play.




The light bulb, hanging from a thin cord in the center of the ceiling, flickers ever so slightly… interfering with the video recording currently being captured by the smart-phone that sits atop the dresser, propped up against a crumpled-up denim jacket.

The man across the room seems oblivious.

Murray Muir sits still, his elbows resting on his knees and his unshaved chin resting on his clasped hands as he stares with his violently purple eyes into the heart of the camera. The cuts on his nose and forehead have turned to scabs, and the blood in his hair has dried and crusted, leaving pieces of hair sticking out at sharp and obscure angles.

Slowly, his mouth shapes itself into a smirk, showing the smallest glimpse of impossibly white teeth.

His eyebrows lower, and he leans forward slightly, taking his hands away from his jaw, but leaving them clasped in his lap.

He speaks, his voice rough, strained, and carrying with it a thick scotch accent.

Murray Muir
I’m not the prettiest guy in the world, am I? I’m not the flashy, clean-cut guy that you usually see on your television, pretending to be a wrestler…

A chuckle, riddled with sarcasm

Murray Muir
That’s because I’m not a wrestler…

Another smirk

Murray Muir
I’m not a wrestler, I’m not a martial artist, and I’m not some kind of ‘entertainment’ superstar! What I am… is a guy who is fed up waiting on his due, fed up stumbling through life waiting to pick up the scraps left behind by a richer class of person. What I am… is a guy that deserves more, and is willing to do anything necessary to get it! What… I… Am… is a fighter; Plain and simple. And that… that’s why I decided to sign up for your “All-Star Wrestling” piece of shit! I want more from life, I wanna fight people, and at the end of the day when it’s all said and it’s all done, I wanna turn around and look at all the people knocked out and bloodied on the canvas behind me, and I wanna be recognized for how good… a fighter… I AM!

Murray exhales sharply, and sits back further in his old armchair. He gently strokes at the stubble that lines his jaw, and stares at the camera-phone for a few seconds, before letting his gaze drop to the floor.

Murray Muir
I know what you’re thinking… that I don’t look like a fighter… that I don’t have the muscle… that I’ve not had the training… But really, none of that matters; it’s all bullshit. You don’t need to spend years training in a dojo, or waste your time sweating away in some good-for-nothing gym… All you need; everything you need… It’s all up here.

He taps his forehead twice with his index finger, just below his wound, and pauses for a second to lick his cracked lips…

Murray Muir
And that’s something that one of my opponents doesn’t seem to realize… Jackson Ford; taught in some overhyped wrestling school, trained by some supposedly famous martial arts family, was it the Gracies? Garcias? Garruchos? Fuck it, it doesn’t matter! Physical training is a fools game, Jackson. It’s for people who don’t know how to think! All you have to do is look at something, analyze it, tell yourself that you can do it, know that you can do it, and then do it… It’s not hard! THAT… that is the power of the thing between your ears… the most dangerous weapon in the world, one that everyone… EVERYONE IN THE ENTIRE WORLD IS BORN WITH… and yet next to no-one really knows how to use it. And that… that INFURIATES ME! The idiocy in this country… In this world… it’s unbelievable… unbearable!

A flash of purple; his eyes dart back to the camera.

Murray Muir
And you, Jackson, people like you… people who blatantly refuse to use their brain… you push me over the edge... You really, really piss me off… because I can’t understand you. I’ve tried, believe me, I’ve tried! I spent five years of my life, FIVE YEARS! In a SHIT-HOLE CITY IN THE NORTH-EAST OF SCOTLAND… trying… to understand. And you know; I can tell a lawyer by his tie, a politician by his hair and a convict by his smile… but I still don’t understand… I just don’t get it.

He sighs again, and leans forward; pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes and rubbing away the dried flakes of blood that have fallen from his hair.

He then takes his hands away, but his eyelids remain shut.

Murray Muir
And I don’t get how some people, people like Jackson Ford, think that just because they know a few fancy wrestling techniques, have outstanding boxing credentials, or have an extensive background in martial arts, they can expect to overcome any and all difficulties… Ha!

He opens his eyes, but keeps their gaze away from the camera

Murray Muir
I have no interest in all that bullshit. I’m far more dangerous than that.

Murray gets up off of his armchair, and to his feet. Slowly, he walks around the chair, and then stands directly behind it; his back to the camera as he gazes through the room’s only window.

Murray Muir
I can take whatever you have to throw at me Jackson… I can take it all; Pain… Hurt… to me they’re nothing. I’ve had it all before… I’ve spent a lifetime suffering…

His hands reach out, and grab the shabby, blue curtains that hang either side of the window. He calmly pulls them together, blocking out all light from outside.

The light bulb continues to flicker, placing the silhouette of Murray Muir in different shades of darkness and light. For a moment he remains silent, before speaking once more.

Murray Muir
You know, I read somewhere Jackson that you’ve had a hard life… As if you even know what that means. You know nothing Jackson, nothing! You haven’t lived the life I have. You don’t know how it really feels to suffer. You have no idea… you’ve had it easy… and speaking of having it easy… ZACK EVERMORE!!

Murray spins around, grasping the top of the old, cloth armchair in front of him and leering at the camera, his purple eyes piercing through the chapters of light and darkness.

Murray Muir
Born into a rich family I hear… filthy rich probably, megabucks! But yet he ‘had a hard time’ accepting gifts, he ‘just didn’t feel right’ knowing that there were people elsewhere in the world worse off than him… Did you mean people like me, Zack? No? Of course you didn’t. Admit it Zack, you were lying! You lied in those interviews, because in reality, you had no problem taking those gifts did you? You were perfectly happy reveling in all the adoration poured out on you from your slut of a mother and your bastard of a father! So why did you lie Zack? Why don’t you tell the world why you’re the fraud that you are? Do you want me to tell them? Really? FINE! You lied Zack… because you… love… attention!

Murray laughs hysterically, his grip tightening on the back of the seat…

Murray Muir
I’m right, aren’t I? That’s why you do all that ‘crazy’ stunt bullshit, that’s why you act so over the top, that’s why you have that big ‘bodyguard’ bastard following you around everywhere you go… you just love ATTENTION!

The smile fades from his face. His lips grow tight, and his eyebrows lower. His breathing becomes more forced, and he begins to speak very slowly and deliberately…

Murray Muir
And so it’s all an act, isn’t it? Zack Evermore isn’t really crazy… He just loves being in the spotlight… He just wants people to acknowledge him. And Zack… Zack at this moment, as you watch this video, and you realize that everything I’ve said about you is true… you might think that we have something in common. You might think that since we both share a hunger for recognition; that means we’re a similar type of person. Well if that’s the case… you’re wrong. You’re nothing like me Zack. You see I want to be recognized for who I am, for what I’ve been through… you want to be recognized for something you’re not. You want to be adored by millions, while I just want respect! And this whole ASWF thing… these matches… this world title tournament… they’re just a means to an end… a way for me to finally get the respect, the fame, and the fortune that I have deserved for so long. But you, Zack? You and Jackson Ford? You don’t deserve the lives you've lead, and you don't deserve a thing! You’re worth less than the pawns in a game of chess! You don’t matter at all and no matter what management tells you, you’re only in this company to make up the numbers…

A smile dawns across his face as he begins to walk around the seat, and towards the camera-phone.

Murray Muir
They thought I was just here to make up numbers too… they haven’t put in place any plans to accommodate someone like me. They thought I’d just stay in the background while they put either James Shark or Cody Taylor on top of their company… but they didn’t realize just how dangerous a man I am… I am going to hurt people… and in doing so I am going to leave… leave THIS…

He stops for a second and motions at the room around him.

Murray Muir
I am going to leave this squalor behind me…

He laughs once more, and takes the last few steps towards the phone and jacket on the dresser.

Murray Muir
Just let me get my coat…

Ended

NoteS

I hate debut roleplays, Trash talk is the first part the CD is the bottom part. I removed like 9 pages of the CD because I didn't want to show my hand.

Click here

http://loadedgunsinc.com/ASWF/ASWF001.html

By B.F. Smith

The Athletic Lunatic ventures into the world of wrestling yet again.
This time, however, the odds of finding a home he'll enjoy seem stacked against him.Will he carve a comfortable spot into ASWF's roster?
Or will the aggressive atmosphere prove too much for him?

Zack Evermore.

A name that always finds its way back to the mouths and minds of many.

Part of a group wrestling fans have dubbed "The Whitmen", "Whitclan" or simply the Whitman crew, Zack is one of the aforementioned long-established yet perpetually-growing group of friends who have each managed to make a name for themselves in the world of pro wrestling and extensions thereof.

But, considering this bunch has a bipolar ex-MWE world champion who is riddled with insecurity, a stable of jesters content on making a joke out of everything, and a former Belarusian hitman, it's hard to imagine Evermore as the most insane of the bunch.

After spending a day with him, however, no doubt is left in our minds.



Zack Evermore is nothing if not hardworking and honest. He is good-natured, full of spirit and energy, and refuses to judge others.

He is also, in this humble editor's opinion, bat-shit crazy.

Throughout our day Zack repeatedly walked off, often in the middle of a question, to speak to complete strangers. He helped an young man with his groceries ("why always old ladies? That's sexist AND ageist!"), bought a bag of nickel candy for some random child, and literally gave the shirt off his back to a toothless, but definitely smiling, homeless man ("I feel guilty. What if that little kid ends up toothless like that dude because of me ? Fruckin' cavities".)

He assured us that he isn't always like this, and sometimes just spends the day wandering about amusing himself. Indeed, the fact that this native Arizonian has never been in any federation for longer than a year proceeds to highlight his impetuous nature.

During the grand reopening of WHQ, Zack was randomly picked by the owner from the batch of new recruits to face the Undisputed champion. Former MWE wrestler David Whitman stepped in as Evermore's one-off manager, and hyped up the match to the point that the title had to be put on the line.
Subsequently, Zack Evermore won the federation's most prestigious title on his pro-wrestling debut.

His reign only came to an end as WHQ's roster crumbled due to dwindling backstage interest, and Zack successfully retired undefeated. Before that moment came, however, he would meet the only girl he had ever found interesting.

"I was walking backstage, and she jumped out from behind a corner, and kind of quietly yelled; ''I'm Batman!' Needless to say, we've been getting along quite well ever since."

Zack's female companion does not go by any fixed name, instead opting to choose a new name whenever she feels the need to. Which is often every day. (As of this writing, it was "Laquishah. She stressed the H at the end. -ed.)

In July of 2010, Zack joined MWE. He quit after winning his first match.

"David (Whitman) had started getting unfair treatment from the higher ups because he didn't want to do promos. I supported his decision, but they just cut his pay and stacked his matches. I left. There's no way I can stay at a federation that values publicity over wrestling. Also, their soda machines didn't have Club Soda. I know, right? What the fruck!"

After giving MWE another shot, Zack saw the federation close its doors indefinitely. He took started taking a more hands-on approach as part-owner of his mentor James Whitman's JEST Kiddin' Inc, a multi-faceted entertainment company.

"Yeah, it's true," Whitman relented. "He won his shares through a bet we made. No, I'm not giving you details!"

As for more personal questions, like his beliefs and political stance, Zack had one simple answer;
"I've learned there's three things in life you should never discuss with people. Politics, religion, and the great pumpkin."

Now, Zack has joined the ranks of All Star Wrestling Federation in the hopes of getting to dip his feet in the insanity pool again, so to speak.

He seems eager and excited to restart his career as a wrestling professional, and likes the idea of a fresh start in a fresh company.

James Whitman had this to say about his student.

"He's got heart. He gets a sick thrill out of making people smile. But what it comes down to is that he oozes entertainment. There's no off-switch. And the best part is, he doesn't even know it!"

The problem, it seems, comes from the ASWF roster.Zack Evermore-

----
"Dude, no."

The pages of script are promptly tossed into a face.

"WHAT?! That's some of my best writing!"

James Whitman shakes his head at the offended B.F. Smith.

"Zack'll hate it. I mean, you suddenly go off on how the other ASWF wrestlers are egotistical? What's that all about?"

"Well it's TRUE, ISN'T IT?"

"That's subjective. Besides, instead of badmouthing his opponents, why don't you just interview him proper? Ask him questions, that sort of thing?"

"I would, but uh..."

James shoots an annoyed look at the journalist.

"What?"

"He said he was going to be very, very busy. With serious adult things."

"... Those were his exact words, weren't they?"

"Yeah."
===============

Blackness turns to static. In the blink of an eye it transforms again, and what we now witness is a war zone; an unspeakable chaos unfolding in front of our very eyes.
Our forefathers warned us of this; in tales and stories passed down through generations, in parables and cave drawings, word of mouth and mystical tomes.

Man has always had an impending sense of doom; a sixth sense of sorts, haunting our waking hours like a lurking shadow in the background- impossible to pinpoint, tough to ignore.

It is moments like this that bring that sense to the forefront and warn us that yes, indeed, something very bad is happening.

-

"OVER HERE!"

The scene is one of pure, unfiltered madness.
They fling at him from everywhere, in all shapes and sizes, colors and patterns. It is pandemonium.
He ducks. He covers. He throws a table onto its side to block the barrage.

"THIS WAY, YOU DUMBF*CK!"

"HEY, THAT'S NOT HELPING!"

He looks back over the table. No other way out.

With a deep sigh, followed by a deeper breath, he lunges forth, rolls and makes it through the door. The partners in crime smile and high-five each other, and proceed to run to a moving van parked in front of the Charlie Cheese's.

- - - -

"F-CK Winston Churchill!"

"... What?!"

Zack Evermore, clad in a white shirt and red boardshorts, is sitting with his legs crossed atop a permanent-marker-scribblings-covered white moving van. In front of him, a board game. Across him, a little child of the female kind, wearing black jeans and a red "Scared of Fear" hoodie.

"I don't know. I just don't like him.

The hot Nevada sun seems to lend a deep glow to their surroundings; from the sandy asphalt to the small cottage a few meters away from them, everything seems crisp and new.

"I see. You know, speaking of randomness and not liking people, what the fruck happened back there?"

The child shrugs.

"Mary said she'd be back in 15 minutes."

"She's Mary-ANN today," he corrects her. "And you know she can't tell time. That doesn't explain why I had to walk into a room where a bunch of preteen girls were ready to rip you a new one. And why the heck did they start throwing presents at me?!"

Another shrug.

"Fuck if I fuckin' know." The harsh words still sting Zack somewhat. "I never liked birthday parties anyway. Birthdays are such a stupid concept to begin with."

"You're turning into her more and more each day."

She chuckles and tosses a blue Stratego game piece at the wrestler.

"Yeah well I like "Abbie". Your fuckin' fruity-pebble of a girlfriend needs to learn how to make up her mind, is what."

A few silent minutes pass as they play, revealing identities and moving pieces off the board.

"So you know we're going to have to talk about it."

The child speaks almost authoritatively. Without looking up, Zack shrugs an uncharacteristically apathetic shrug.

"Not much to say. I'm really looking forward to it."

"Yeah, sounds like it," Abbie replies, scoffing. "Motherfuckin' Mr. Lifeless over here. I've never seen you this dulled out, SON! You on the heroin again?"

They share a laugh. Zack, smiling once more, seems a bit cheerier. "It's just that I've been training almost non-stop for weeks. I've slept like two hours a day since I got the call, and when I got the match confirmation was the last night I slept even that much. I don't know what's wrong with me."

They both stare at the game pieces, trying to figure out the hidden deeper meaning.

"Are you scared?", she finally asks.

"Scared?"

"Yeah, I mean... Muir? Isn't he psychotic?"

Zack looks up and straight at Abbie, as if she were normal. Which would, of course, be crazy.

"ARE YOU KIDDING? Murray Muir is MY KIND OF GUY! I don't know much about him, but from the whispers I've heard, he sounds like a real misunderstood guy."

"You obviously haven't been hearing the same rumors I have."

A bit of the Zack Abbie knows slips out when he screams "I SAID WHISPERS, AB-ORIGINAL!!! Rumors are like tumors, and whispers are like lispers."

"People who lisp?"

"YES!"

Zack suddenly takes a deep breath and starts speaking calmly again, as the sun continues to set slowly.

"Look, it rhymes, so it's true. My points is, Muir seems like a smart enough dude, too. I'm actually pretty psyched to be facing him; I haven't heard much about him or how he wrestles, and that's like a challenge, you know? It's gonna be like, solving a puzzle. Thinking on my feet. I love it. He's gonna be awesome. I know it."

The day is slowly wearing out. As the warmness drops significantly, the little girl zips up her hoodie to pre-combat the oncoming cold. She raises her voice as well; the wind blows harder now. It makes her sound like she's trying to get a very important point across.

"I know you like to see the good in people, and you've been wrestling for probably longer than I've been alive, but I really think you should consider being careful. This guy seems like he's up to no good. I don't wanna see you get hurt, you dumb fuckface."

Zack lets out a silent yawn; he covers his mouth. Once he's done he continues speaking at a leisurely pace.

"I somersaulted off a moving truck onto two dudes on a table. Not even a week after, I suplexed Hendricks through a glass sheet onto a thumbtack-covered chair. Heck, I once went into a burning building for 15 minutes to save a cat that turned out to be stuffed."

"That was a fuckin' sweet-ass cat doll, though."

"Word. Pass the chips."

Abbie reaches into the backpack behind her, grabs and tosses Zack a black and white bag of chips.

"The point is, Ab-ysmalite, that I know what I'm doing when it comes to not knowing what I'm doing."

Abbie facepalms herself and shakes her head as Zack opens the bag and starts chowing down on potato chips.

"Well then, what about Jackson Ford? Aren't you worried, after seeing all that footage James sent over?"

Zack looks perplexed.

"You DID see the footage, didn't you?'

A half-eaten chip drops from the wrestler's mouth.

"How is it someone as tiny as you can make something so technological sound so sinister and evil?"

Abbie smirks.

"You couldn't open the file."

"It was RARE. Even the format said so."

A few silent seconds pass.

"That's RAR, you idiot. Anyways; you were right. It IS the same Ford you guys used to gay out over on Youtube."

"WHAT? OH MY GOD! I KNEW IT"

Zack starts pounding on the roof of the van wildly. After a minute or so, the back door swings open and a huge hulk of a man wearing Ghostbusters pajamas walks out.

"WHAT. DO YOU. WANT."

"GET UP HERE BELLY! IT'S AN EMERGENCY!"

Grunting and groaning, the big, muscular, bald-headed brute climbs the ladder attached to the back door of the van. Once he's up on the roof, he stretches.

"Somebody better be having a seizure."

Zack jumps up with a huge smile on his face. Abbie's got one, too; she loves seeing him like this.

"BETTER! You'll never believe it! The Jackson Ford that's in the match? It IS him! Remember we used to watch him all the time on the webtube?!"

The big man sighs.

"Youtube."

"Naw, at first I didn't even know about him. It wasn-"

"No, I said YouTUBE. The video sharing site?"

Zack thinks hard for a moment...

"... Napster?"

"Forget it."

"POINT BEING! Didn't you also see him fight back when you were still in Europe?"

Belarus very calmly forms two upside-down peace-signs with his fingers. This prompts Zack to turn to Abbie.

"I don't get it."

"Yeah me neither."

The giant sighs.

"American Assassins, dude."

Zack puts an arm around the man's shoulder.

"Look Belly, I know you still resent this country for what its done to you, but you can't be a racist, dude. It's not okay. My people don't dig on that."

Belarus can't even bring himself to sigh this time. He has no energy or will.

"I've lived here almost my entire life. If I ever have to repeat that again-"

"Well what was that whole Americ-"

Belly snaps.

"FORD, YOU IDIOT! HE WAS A PART OF AMERICAN ASSASSINS! AND I HOPE HE KILLS YOU!"

Abbie gets up quickly and punches Belly in the... belly.

"ABBIE!"

I could have said nuts, too. Because you know, crazy, nuts? No?

"No dude, she's right, I was out of line. I'm sorry."

Nuts like balls.

"I just got woken up, so I'm still cranky. I apologize."

Abbie turns to Zack and ignores Belarus completely.

"Don't listen to him. Ford doesn't have anything on you. He may have chops but his ego gets in the way. Ego is what's gonna be the downfall of all your opponents. Ego in wrestling... It's almost like hitting the jackpot in Vegas and investing in the porn industry; first you get lucky, then someone gets fucked. And pretty soon your head grows to a very unnatural size. And someone has to take it off."

A silent moment that feels like an eternity engulfs the three people standing on the roof of the van in the Nevada desert.

"... did a twelve year old just use gambling and porn in an analogy to STDs?"

"Yeah, sometimes I wonder how we got here too."