"Dude, you owe me. You owe me so fucking much, it's like, not even funny!"

Silas looks at Charlie, the vocalist of their group of misfits, and raises an eyebrow. Suddenly, the usual Friday chilling in his garage has acquired a somewhat coercive tone.

"I mean, I'm not asking you to like, I don't know, steal me an emerald the size of my dick..."

"...yeah, 'cause then it'd be fucking tiny and no one would notice it was gone," Silas interjects into his monologue, earning himself a pillow thrown at his head, which thankfully misses.

"...Shut your smart mouth, asshole, let me finish! Anyway, for all those times I dragged your ass out of a ditch with a busted face, bailed you out from the cops, or lied to the cops, you owe me big time, and right now, you really gotta help me out."

Silas rolls his eyes but doesn't argue—Charlie was right. Sure, he's a real shit-eater, but not that much of one.

"Alright, what do you want from me? Just let's not have any impossible tasks, like finding you a hot chick, 'cause she'd have to be blind and deaf at the same time."

Charlie flips him off and, uncapping a bottle of beer, takes a long swig.

"My sister, you. She needs someone to drive her to another city. A week on the road."

Silas' eyes widen and he blinks owlishly, looking quite comical from the side.

"Your sister. Right. Drive her," he repeats automatically, allowing his brain to digest the new information.

Charlie's sister had, let's say, a reputation. The reputation of the town's fucking weirdo. Word is, she collects all sorts of creepy shit, like dead possums, hunts for cryptids in the suburban woods at night, and was spotted digging up Bald Joe's backyard—a guy whose reputation was hardly any better and who everyone around considered a psycho maniac. Of course, these were all rumors, but there's no smoke without fire, right? Plus, one fact still remains solid—you were a lonely weirdo from whom, it seems, no one has ever heard more than ten words spoken at once or seen with even one friend.

Silas reaches for the mini-fridge, opens it, grabs a can of beer for himself, pops the tab, and takes two quick swigs.

"Well, okay, let her get ready. But I swear to God, I'm not going to babysit her. If Count Dracula or some other fairy-tale motherfucker she chases through the woods snatches her up at night, she's on her own."

---

Silas taps his fingers on the steering wheel, feeling like a fucking high school grad who's picking up his "sugar baby." Except he was a trash punk who currently had a wicked hangover, and his "baby" was a loner weirdo. He smirks, flicking a cigarette butt out the open window, which lands right in the yard and disappears into the peony bushes.

A match made in heaven.

Silas rubs his bloodshot eyes with his hands as he hears hurried footsteps approaching. Stretching, he unlocks the adjacent door with a click and looks up at you, a poorly concealed smirk on his face.

"Hop in, weirdo. Where we headed?"