Tales From The Gas Station Quotes

The gas station had already cut so many corners on safety that it was practically a circle,

A couple gnomes showed up right outside the back door, and I left them where I found them because one of them was holding a steak knife and I don’t need that kind of crazy in my life.

No, dude, I’m working at a shitty gas station in the middle of nowhere and I’m perfectly happy being miserable until I die. Good day, sir.

That’s a big old nope sandwich with a side of hell naw slaw.

It’s the kind of place where, for fun, people do Civil War reenactments in the summer and meth in the winter.

the smoke detector may or may not be an old frisbee.

I closed the file, shut down the browser, and turned off the computer, thinking to myself, Well that’s enough internet for today.

I was simply dying much slower than anticipated. But when you think about it, isn’t that all anyone can really ask for?

This whole apocalypse could have been an email.

He looked like God got drunk and decided to make a person but realized halfway through that He didn’t have all the ingredients and tried to wing it with spare parts.

You were sleep floating.” “Oh,” Rosa said. “Sorry about that. I really didn’t mean to.

Hey, I have a question for you.” “Yes, there’s weed in the tea.” “No, I already knew that. I had a question about the internet.

Being dead is a lot like dreaming. Sometimes it’s good; sometimes it’s bad. But most of the time, you don’t even realize you’re doing it.

(I know my life may seem a tad pathetic from the outside, but that’s just because it is.)

​Her voice still sounded the way wasabi tastes.

​Time moves strangely at the gas station, flowing slow and fast all at once, like molasses out of a shotgun.

hot dogs are not sandwiches (they are, in fact, American tacos).

This was the conversation equivalent of the moment a zipper gets jammed on nothing.

If the gas station were a planet, it would be Pluto. If the gas station were a vowel, it would be Y. If the gas station were an X-Man, it would be Wolverine.

What’s ‘catch these hands’ in Latin?

From now on, you fight dirty, understand? And nothin’s dirtier than dirt. Pick it up, throw it in your opponent’s eyes. Go for the hair and the squishy bits. And for God’s sake, don’t be afraid to grab another man’s balls. Casual homophobia has killed a lot of otherwise competent fighters.

​I didn’t appreciate the way he was being so polite and considerate. At least when people are rude, angry, or belligerent, I know it’s coming from a place of honesty. It’s much harder to know what kindness is supposed to mean.

Demons were one thing, but anyone who’s ever been attacked by a goose can tell you that they’re aggressive apex predators descended from dinosaurs. And unlike demons, geese can’t be tricked, befriended, or reasoned with. If one of those honking bastards was sitting here waiting for us like a drug dealer we owed money, then a fight wasn’t just likely, it was inevitable.

Dearly beliked, we are gathered here tonight to pay our first and final respects to these gentle creatures. Oh, closet mice, I’m sorry you all died in a box in the back of the supply room, but I’m grateful that at least you didn’t have to die alone. We pray that you don’t haunt this gas station. Instead may you find your peace in Heaven or whatever your mouse-religion equivalent is." "Valhalla." I muttered.

​It wasn’t all about the Benjamimics. Sometimes, they were just random people. Sometimes, they were locals. Even one guy pretending to be a “health inspector.” Not always adults, either. It was the kids that were the hardest to kill (figuratively speaking, of course—in practice, they were the easiest).

it was a dark and stormy cliché.

You really thought I might have been the killer?” ​“Yes.” ​“Aww, thank you.

Chapter Forty-One Some time passed. It's hard to say how much, exactly.

Clearly, you’re in an emotionally vulnerable state right now. Here, take this gun.

I thought back to what Dr. V had said during that visit, about preserving the integrity of my brain. I looked Tony in the eyes and said, "Aim for the head, please.

Just like sorting laundry or paying taxes, reading these notes is 100% optional!

A gun, a backup gun, and enough cash for two boring weeks or two interesting days.

Sabine[12]—the only person in the world whose opinion of me I really cared about—was watching, and she had seen the whole thing.

​The sheer number of people in my life who have somehow failed to outlive me is, in a word, incredible.

Her voice sounded like she’d halfway swallowed a kazoo before smoking ten thousand cigarettes.

and before I knew it, he was completely stark-naked. Why does this keep happening to me?

Have you ever thought about carrying a gun?” “Not really. I’m clumsy and prone to dropping things and I don’t want to accidentally kill someone. Same reasons I don’t like holding babies.

​“I didn’t understand any of that,” I said. ​Roger chuckled, “That’s fair. It’s not terribly important right now anyway. Maybe we’ll touch more upon it in the fourth book.” ​“The fourth what?” ​“Never mind.

Relax. Empty your mind. Focus on nothing but the sound of your own breathing… Why is my breathing so shallow anyway? Is this normal? Or is it, like, too shallow? Great, now my breathing has switched over to manual mode.

Remember when I said I did volunteer work at a no-kill animal shelter on the same day I insulted Janet at the gas station? Indeed, I had visited a no-kill animal shelter that day. But only to kill all the goddamn animals!

Rosa looked at us nervously and offered some parting words of support. “Be careful. I’d hate for this night to turn into a… what’s the opposite of a sausage fest?” Jerry answered, “A clamboree.” “Right. I’d hate for this to turn into a clamboree.” That felt like a good

We're gonna go touch butts," I said. Marlboro lifted an eyebrow. "Wait," he started, "Does that mean you're going to go touch each other's butts? Or like, you're going into the woods to find some butts to touch? Or, like, were you planning on touching your butts together?" "Yep." I answered. "Well count me in!

Saw about a dozen and a half bikers pull into a gas station. After watching them stop at the pumps, start up their bikes and ride to the front of the convenience store, stop, then fire up their bikes again and take off, I’ve come to conclusion that the most time consuming activity bikers engage in is finding neutral.

Is everything okay?" "Yeah, yeah, probably. I just wanted to mention--and it's probably no big deal--but there's a guy hanging out near the gas station staring at me." "Nothing illegal about staring." "Yeah, you're right. It's just that, well, he's wearing a mask." "It is Halloween, you know." "You're right. It's just that, he's standing out in the rain wearing this long blue raincoat." "That's what raincoats are for." "Yeah, I guess you've got a good point. It's just that, he's really creeping me out and I think he's like eight feet tall and his arms go down to his knees." There was a short pause on the other line. Then, "That's not illegal.

Humans are programmed from birth to push themselves way beyond what’s necessary. Self-care is demonized, except where utterly necessary for the survival of the working stock. Everyone is struggling to make it to the next step, looking forward to that moment when life is going to finally get a little better, and only then will we be allowed to relax. But there is no plateau. It’s a steady incline until death.

Algren’s book opens with one of the best historical descriptions of American white trash ever written.* He traces the Linkhorn ancestry back to the first wave of bonded servants to arrive on these shores. These were the dregs of society from all over the British Isles—misfits, criminals, debtors, social bankrupts of every type and description—all of them willing to sign oppressive work contracts with future employers in exchange for ocean passage to the New World. Once here, they endured a form of slavery for a year or two—during which they were fed and sheltered by the boss—and when their time of bondage ended, they were turned loose to make their own way. In theory and in the context of history the setup was mutually advantageous. Any man desperate enough to sell himself into bondage in the first place had pretty well shot his wad in the old country, so a chance for a foothold on a new continent was not to be taken lightly. After a period of hard labor and wretchedness he would then be free to seize whatever he might in a land of seemingly infinite natural wealth. Thousands of bonded servants came over, but by the time they earned their freedom the coastal strip was already settled. The unclaimed land was west, across the Alleghenies. So they drifted into the new states—Kentucky and Tennessee; their sons drifted on to Missouri, Arkansas and Oklahoma. Drifting became a habit; with dead roots in the Old World and none in the New, the Linkhorns were not of a mind to dig in and cultivate things. Bondage too became a habit, but it was only the temporary kind. They were not pioneers, but sleazy rearguard camp followers of the original westward movement. By the time the Linkhorns arrived anywhere the land was already taken—so they worked for a while and moved on. Their world was a violent, boozing limbo between the pits of despair and the Big Rock Candy Mountain. They kept drifting west, chasing jobs, rumors, homestead grabs or the luck of some front-running kin. They lived off the surface of the land, like army worms, stripping it of whatever they could before moving on. It was a day-to-day existence, and there was always more land to the west. Some stayed behind and their lineal descendants are still there—in the Carolinas, Kentucky, West Virginia and Tennessee. There were dropouts along the way: hillbillies, Okies, Arkies—they’re all the same people. Texas is a living monument to the breed. So is southern California. Algren called them “fierce craving boys” with “a feeling of having been cheated.” Freebooters, armed and drunk—a legion of gamblers, brawlers and whorehoppers. Blowing into town in a junk Model-A with bald tires, no muffler and one headlight … looking for quick work, with no questions asked and preferably no tax deductions. Just get the cash, fill up at a cut-rate gas station and hit the road, with a pint on the seat and Eddy Arnold on the radio moaning good back-country tunes about home sweet home, that Bluegrass sweetheart still waitin, and roses on Mama’s grave. Algren left the Linkhorns in Texas, but anyone who drives the Western highways knows they didn’t stay there either. They kept moving until one day in the late 1930s they stood on the spine of a scrub-oak California hill and looked down on the Pacific Ocean—the end of the road.

Sometimes I imagine meeting the guy who designs raingear that can be neither donned nor doffed when wet. We both roll up at a gas station at about the same time. Of course, it’s raining. When I figure out what he does for a job, rain gear designer, or whatever, I stop him right there by holding up an index finger. “Just wait a minute,” I say. Then I struggle to remove a waterlogged glove, shaking my head and laughing a bit because I know what’s coming next. Holding the glove by the cuff, I soggy-slap him in the face. “That’s a sloggy!” I’d say (trademark), and I’d deliver it on behalf of us all.

And you’re sure he’s still there?” *** He was definitely still there.

All the roads are covered in trees. But they aren’t, you know, fallen. The trees are growing in the middle of the street. Cracking right up through the pavement.

Clearly, Mother Nature was drunk.

I could hear other voices coming from the nothing, joining hers in a trickle at first, and growing into a storm. Soon, a chorus of hundreds were speaking in unison from her mouth, combined into a singular voice no louder than her own.

The book club meeting had been a success (by my standards, anyway—we had fun and nobody died).

the two of them found the power to fall asleep, almost like they were showing off.

No you’re not, Jack. Be serious; you’re clearly a Pisces or a Cancer. That’s the thing about us water signs. You can’t tame water. We’re full of passion, ya see? But you know what? Water only ever comes with a storm.” “That is objectively untrue.

My advice to you is the same as always. Lawyer up, delete Facebook, hit the gym. In that order. You can’t go wrong.

I swear, ever since Romero made zombies cool, people see a dead man come back to life and instantly they get this urge to kill, kill, kill. What ever happened to calling this a miracle? Nobody freaked out when Jesus came back.

gas station had already cut so many corners on safety that it was practically a circle,

I think no man ever steps in the same river twice.

I allowed my thoughts to drift, and somewhere along the way they took a wrong step. Without realizing it, I’d fallen into my own head. Now I was tumbling down a rabbit hole of existential distress.

Each year, winter took up residence in my bones like a bad roommate, and no matter how many pots of coffee I drank, it never seemed to be enough to keep my insides warm.

The alpha (a muscular, three-foot-tall son of a bitch named Rocco)

I don’t have friends. Just people I haven’t killed yet. But

Yeah?” Jerry responded. “Well, I think you need to step back and take a good, long, hard gorilla dick and use it to go fuck yourself.

Aw man fuck you!” he screamed. “Fuck your whole face!

rang.

by

requirement.

I was destined to be forgotten. But in the grand scheme, aren’t we all? In a cosmic time scale, what’s the difference between being mourned for a minute or an eon?

If I’d known that this was all it took, I’d have tossed your grandmother into traffic a long time ago.

things don’t necessarily need to be possible; they just needed to happen.

That’s a big old nope sandwich with a side of hell naw slaw. I’d heard enough. I did my part, and if there was a magical flying intangible forest baby somewhere out there, I’d leave it to the professionals to figure out where it went.

Yes. Was that exactly what I was planning to do? Also, yes.

I decided that whatever hatched from the cocoon, be it butterfly or moth or monster, I was going to name it Starburst.

Hey man, we don’t want no trouble. If you’re after the cash, go ahead and take it. Ain’t no heroes here.” ​The bearded man laughed obnoxiously and said, “Well, there’s at least one. My name is Benjamin, and I’m here to save your sorry asses.

It was Benjamin. He was alive,

ScaredMoose​​Jack. GasStationJack​​Yes, Moose? ScaredMoose​​The Dark God has a message for you.

Welcome... to my home,

The best animal I could think of to compare him to would be an enormous tick, with six rows of stubby arms on either side, six rows of sagging breasts, and a human-sized head on the top.

I heard the clink, clink, clink of spurs against the concrete floor as they approached the edge.

I’m really good at spreading things virally. If ya know what I mean.

It had been a while since the last episode, and part of me thought, or hoped, that maybe the problem had somehow fixed itself. But deep down, I knew it was just a matter of time before I caught myself digging again.

​I opened the drawer next to the register and grabbed the box of earplugs. I always keep a box on hand to block out the different noises or voices or screams that occasionally permeate the air vents on long, lonely nights. I don’t know if any of these noises are real or not, but I know they are annoying as hell, and the ear plugs are the only things that seem to help. As I stuffed the first one in, I could hear that whisper from right next to me say, “Aw, come on. Bro. Don’t do me like that.

​If I was dubious before, I was double dubious now.

We hired a babysitter. Going into the city. I got us tickets to see Book of Mormon.” ​“Nice,” I said with a nod.

How old are you?” I hadn’t been asked this in a place of business since I was seventeen, when I tried, unsuccessfully, to buy a fifth of Jack Daniel’s at a liquor store across the highway from Mr. Grady’s gas station. It was just as unsettling to be carded at the other end of my life, for a fucking biscuit, no less, but I answered as civilly as possible. “I’m

my favorite was when the schoolgirl didn’t complete her homework on time!” Owen was saying enthusiastically. “It was a great piece of filmmaking, because the professor had this dungeon...” “Hey, buddy,” Liam said, leaning forward. “Looks like there’s a gas station at that exit up ahead. Didn’t you say you were running low? How about we stop and fill up, and maybe grab a bite to eat?” “But I’m in the middle of my story!” Owen protested. “Don’t you want to hear what happens to the schoolgirl? Helen does! Don’t you, Helen?” “Get. Gas. Now.” My voice has never been more deadly serious. “Sheesh,” Owen says sadly, signaling and pulling over to exit. “Fine, Helen; if you insist. I’m disappointed in you. Liam is a spoilsport, but I would have thought that since you’re a writer, you would appreciate a good story.” “A good story?” I repeat incredulously. “Owen, nothing you’ve said in the past three hours has been anywhere close to a good story. Listening to you is making my ears hurt. I think they’re melting—your words are like acid being poured into my ear canals.” “Hey! That’s not nice,” Owen says in a grumpy tone. It sounds like he might be pouting. “It’s medically impossible to lose your hearing from listening to someone talk about the glorious art of pornography.” I grumble to myself unhappily. “It’s possible if I buy a popsicle at the gas station, eat the popsicle, and then use the popsicle stick to gouge my own ears out so that I can tolerate the rest of this trip!” Sighing, I lean to press my head against the glass of the car window. It is cold, and I use it like an ice pack to soothe my aching ear and temple. I really do feel like if I need to listen to one more ridiculous tale of sexual depravity for no particular reason, I’m going to lose my mind. I really wouldn’t care if they were good stories. “Seriously. I think I’m going deaf. It hurts.” “Well, that’s a bad problem to have when you’re in the car with two eye doctors!” Owen says cheerfully. “Jesus, man,” Liam says to his friend in dismay. “It’s been hours. You need to stop talking.

​Thoughts and words piled up like a queue outside my mind and rushed in at moments of weakness like the bottom half of an Icee sticking to the cup, waiting for the chance to come smashing into my face.

​I grabbed the baseball bat from behind the counter and cracked Satan across the skull. For an omnipotent super-deity, he sure went down like a bitch.

I’ll tell you exactly how he smelled. Abysmal. Like a hot cilantro fart in a cramped elevator).

and he smelled like he just finished bathing in a tub of pee that someone farted in.

When he had finally run out of steam, there were beads of sweat all over his face. I grabbed a couple napkins and offered them, which he accepted with a confused “Thanks,” before putting them in his pocket.

I looked back at the cultist and explained, "My friend Antonio here was just showing me the body of the guy he killed and put into the trunk of his car." A second passed, and the cultist said, "Right on. I'm going inside," before walking back towards the front of the building.

You guys are a murder cult?" I asked, just for clarification. "Hey, whoa, come on. That's such a nasty word." he said, holding up his hands defensively, "Try to think of us more as a murder religion, or maybe a murder ideology. Murderology, if you will.

Some mysteries aren’t worth the mental stress. Like why the Kieffer on the floor clearly had a deep, clean slit across his throat in addition to the gouge on his forehead. Or how this Kieffer was totally wearing a pair of shiny black dress shoes with the laces tied up. There was more to this story, but I certainly didn’t want to know it.

His coffee always tasted like the pot was in need of a good cleaning, and smelled like he’d figured out a way to burn the water before brewing.

Great." He pulled out one more twenty and handed it to me before saying, "Maybe we don’t tell anybody what happened here tonight?" "Who would I tell?" I finished telling all this to Brother Riley who nodded as the story settled in

Did you guys really need to take off all your clothing?" Paul shrugged and said, "It's only weird if you make it weird." "No," I responded, "It's weird either way.

But Honey, think about it!" "We can't just up and abandon our lives. I have my job. We have six seasons of Gossip Girl waiting for us on the DVR. We have children." "Fuck 'em

The Kieffer was dead before I managed to scramble the rest of the way out and run over to his side. In a final act of defiance, he had turned both of his middle fingers up at me. I felt just the slightest amount of respect for him

I feel a little… what’s that word, when you’re sad that a story you’ve invested so much time in has ended and you’ll never get to know what the characters do next?” “I call it the book hangover.” “I thought there might be a slightly more poetic word for it, like desiderium or something.” “Nope. ‘Book-hangover.’” “Well I’m hungover like crazy. How does one treat a book hangover?” I shrugged. “I guess another book.” “Okay! What are we reading next?” The question was so unexpected that I didn’t understand her at first. “We?” I asked. “Well, yeah. You’re the expert. What’s next for our book club?” “This is a book club now?