Uncle Slappy's Quest for Monkey
Reno's Rest Stop and Sanitary Relief Station is neither restful nor sanitary. But there's enough brewing in the coffee to wipe out anything that would try to kill you, unless its the kitchen staff.
Grabbing a cup of coffee from the ugly gray shape behind the counter, you try to adjust to your surroundings and remember what you're supposed to do for today. Go entertain Uncle Slappy and take him for smokes and then, maybe, you could go back to bed for several hours and follow it up withÂ…
A giant hand slams you against the counter and then lifts you up and over. The sound of an explosion behind you registers as your body flips and you strike a rack of breakfast cereal and the microwave sitting on the opposite counter, driving shards of broken plate glass deeper into your back as you crash back and down. To your right, you barely notice the gray shape of a waitress snap backwards and flop to the ground. You may have been spared the flash with your tired, red eyes shut, but the cloud rising from over the hill on the other side of the highway is unmistakable. All the windows are broken. Hanging upside down, your neck twisted as your shoulders rest on the gunmetal counter, you see bodies of customers slit apart by shrapnel, slumped in their booths, blood in their pancakes and eggs.
It's hard to think through the trobbing headache and aching bruises and lacerations. But you have to move. Something isn't right and that explosion came from Uncle Slappy's house. What do you do?
Grabbing a cup of coffee from the ugly gray shape behind the counter, you try to adjust to your surroundings and remember what you're supposed to do for today. Go entertain Uncle Slappy and take him for smokes and then, maybe, you could go back to bed for several hours and follow it up withÂ…
A giant hand slams you against the counter and then lifts you up and over. The sound of an explosion behind you registers as your body flips and you strike a rack of breakfast cereal and the microwave sitting on the opposite counter, driving shards of broken plate glass deeper into your back as you crash back and down. To your right, you barely notice the gray shape of a waitress snap backwards and flop to the ground. You may have been spared the flash with your tired, red eyes shut, but the cloud rising from over the hill on the other side of the highway is unmistakable. All the windows are broken. Hanging upside down, your neck twisted as your shoulders rest on the gunmetal counter, you see bodies of customers slit apart by shrapnel, slumped in their booths, blood in their pancakes and eggs.
It's hard to think through the trobbing headache and aching bruises and lacerations. But you have to move. Something isn't right and that explosion came from Uncle Slappy's house. What do you do?