So you’ve decided to hit the road. That’s fine. US 18 from Milwaukee, Winsconsin to Dallas. But not the real Dallas, we are talking about Dallas, South Dakota. Your home town, a.k.a. shitty town in the middle of fucking nowhere.
Miles go by, yet you are only able to stop for gas and a quick bite. Too much thinking is going on in your head. Why did they start the war? Why did you run away? Alas, those damned why questions are not usually easy to answer. Maybe back in Dallas your brother has the answer. At least you hope so.
The radio keeps blagging about the damned war. You don’t really care. As you cross the Mississippi river at Marquette, you decide to turn off the radio. Forever. You just rip it and toss it. The voices in your head are keeping you company.
You drive for what seems a never ending night. At dawn, you stop on the curb, just outside Fairfax (not the real Fairfax, of course) to pick up a hitchhiker. He introduces himself as Steve. You get a bad vibe, but you continue driving. You are really tired and want to get a good at rest at Frank Day’s bar, the best hotel, diner and titty bar in Dallas (the only one, in fact).
The sky is wrong, colors are strange. Steve is silent. You have not crossed a single car in the last few dozen miles. The last one is not so strange, though.
Not a soul at Frank Day’s. That IS strange. The TV is on, but no reception, the same goes on with the radio. No phone carrier either. You search around and finally find a piece of paper with the most shocking revelation in the counter.