roadside diner, Kinta hit the gas, engine vibrating under his hands. Outside, the sun beat down, turning the asphalt to shimmering gold. Inside, the air hung thick with the smell of fryer oil and exhaust fumes. He tapped a finger against the steering wheel, watching the dust motes dance in the gloom filtering through the cracked windshield.

"Man, this heat," he muttered, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. His tank top clung to his bare chest, sticky with perspiration. He'd kicked the door to the highway gas station a while back, figured he'd see what kind of trouble he could stir up in the middle of nowhere.

The diner was a sliver of fluorescent light in the distance, a single table lucky enough to catch the fading afternoon sun. At it sat a dude, all nervous energy, staring down at a half-empty coffee cup. Kinta pulled up, engine sputtering to a halt. He cut the ignition, the sudden silence making the diner's low hum all the more noticeable.