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I didn’t want to wake up tied to a tree, being invited to squeal like a little piggy for the entertainment of a 20-year-old psychopath in giant dun ga rees, with three teeth in his head and a bitter hatred of anyone who wasn’t also a 30-stone homophobic racist who shot at things he didn’t understand.
During my freshman year of college, I went for a “spirited” (read: bat out of hell) drive with a few car enthusiasts (mostly MR2 and BMW owners) through rural southwest Virginia. We stopped at a gas station where no threats of violence were exchanged, let alone conversation, but the looks from the locals (some of whom were lacking teeth and rust-free vehicles) were enough to convince us to leave at just as brisk a pace with which we arrived.
