Highway Page #5

I don't know, Pilot.

But maybe we can

ask the old lady...

when we go

and say good-bye.

What? You don't want

to say good-bye?

I didn't say that.

Yes you did, dude!

I heard you.

Cassandra, did you hear?

I did. 'When we go

and say good-bye,'

like it was the stupidest

f***ing thing you ever heard.

And it was my idea.

I did not say that.

But it was the

stupidest f***ing thing...

I ever heard,

by the way.

Why?

Are you guys, by any

chance, in love?

Why? Bro, why do we have to go

and say good-bye tomorrow?

I mean, couldn't

we just have...

said good-bye today?

I'm gonna go

take a shower.

I'll meet you

all at the bar.

We gotta stop for

the night anyhow.

I mean, we've been

traveling for two days.

And plus, you know, I got some

things I gotta figure out.

What things?

I might lay

some cash on her.

Why?

Come on, man.

The whole scenario

is pretty pathetic.

Granted, but who

the f*** are you...

Donald Trump?

You didn't even

want to go see...

the Alligator Boy in

the first place, Pilot.

Yeah, but I'm glad

that you made us go.

Although, I don't think

your girlfriend dug it.

Bro, easy, easy.

What?

-Bro, easy. -What?

Easy with that.

My girlfriend.

She is witchy

though, isn't she?

If you say so.

Come on, give it-

hey, bro, give it up.

Just get the bags!

You may-maybe you

shouldn't do that.

Yikes!

Just up

the hill is a house...

overlooking Lake Washington...

where he pulled a chair

up to a window...

pressed the barrel of a

20-gauge shotgun to his head...

and pulled the trigger.

Imagine, though.

I mean, not to be

a total buzz kill, but...

imagine how many d*cks

have been inside her.

What?

That pervert at

the Dan D. Fine...

said the girl who

stole those shoes...

worked there for 1 1 months.

1 1 months, Jack.

That's like-it's

like 4 d*cks a day.

And, you know, I'm

being conservative.

All right, and they must've

worked, like, 6-day weeks.

6 times 4 is 24,

1 1 months is 44 weeks,

so, 44 times 24...

is 1,056.

1,056 d*cks!

1,056 d*cks, Jack!

Pop quiz.

No.

Come on, it's a quick one.

No.

-Come on. -No.

Go.

What is 1,056 d*cks?

A lot of d*cks.

Beep! Perfect score.

Gold star.

We haven't even begun

calculating blow jobs.

Obviously, the kid doesn't like

being stared at and made fun of,

so maybe she should stop

charging people to look at him.

Maybe then he could

have a peaceful life.

What?

Nothing.

Oh, god!

Two...three...four...

Oh, sh*t!

When worlds collide.

I worship the concept.

-Hey!

-What's up, Jack?

What are you

doing here?

Tony Gomez

was a no-show!

I'm now officially

hitchhiking to Seattle.

Dude, what are you going

up there for anyways?

A friend of mine died.

A f***ed up freak

named Jimmy DeAngelo.

And he left me

his business.

Got insane in

the brain one night...

and suicide-pacted

with this other kid.

Way too much Jack Daniels,

mescaline, and Ozzy Osbourne.

Backward masking,

suicide is good.

Blah, blah, blah.

Blah, blah.

Boom !

Shotgun to the face

in the playground.

The other kid died...

but Jim hung on.

Oh, they had to do

some major surgery...

on account that most

of his face was gone.

They actually grafted some

of his ass up to his face.

But Jim had a really

hairy ass...

so he has had to

shave his forehead.

It was a bad scene.

And he drooled like

a motherf***er.

And that's what

eventually did him in.

Cause, check it out,

Jim didn't mind being ugly...

and having the hairy

forehead and no teeth.

But goddamn it, he couldn't

take the drooling.

So one night he gobbled

too many sleeping pills...

and he did the job right.

Anyway!

How come they call

you Pilot, anyways?

My mother f***ed

an airline pilot...

only she never

knew his name.

So she called

me Pilot.

Good thing he

a wasn't bulimic.

Otherwise, your

name would be Puke.

A field!

We need a field!

A field

in which to frolic!

How's your head?

Good.

Good.

What?

OK.

We found the shoes.

You went

through my sh*t?

No.

The bag,

it was open...

a little bit.

So what's your

point, exactly?

We were there,

at the Dan D. Fine.

We heard about

the shoes.

A girlfriend and I went

to Los Angeles...

to become actresses.

Yeah, it didn't

work out.

I don't think

I had any talent.

So, after a few years,

I said, 'F*** it,'

and was heading back home.

But I stopped in Vegas...

where a pit boss comped

me a meal and a room...

and asked if I'd...

escort some friend of his,

some Texas high roller...

you know, and sit at

the tables with him...

let him rub my thigh

for good luck.

So, uh...

I did it.

The next morning,

I woke up alone...

with an envelope

on the nightstand...

filled with hundreds.

Within a couple of weeks,

I was at the Dan D. Fine.

But what about

the shoes?

I don't know.

Just some symbolic gesture

that, at the time, seemed epic,

but now only seems stupid.

So, what are you

going to do next?

I don't know.

What do you think

I should do?

Got any ideas?

Anything but home.

All right.

The 'so what' factor is...

huge.

The unlove...

at the end of the day...

sh*t, you can see the merit in

actually fellating the pistol,

because no matter what...

no matter how much

money you make...

no matter

how many gowns you bone...

no matter how many times

you groove...

like nobody

ever grooved before...

in a hundred years or so...

you're dust.

Crumbling soot in a pine box...

that our loved ones went

all out for...

so that you could be...

crumbling soot

in a pine box...

in a J.C. Penney suit no less.

And why?

Because we never wore

them in life...

so they just figure,

'what the f***?'

and they stick us

in the cheapo one.

Better than the concert t-shirts

and the ripped-up jeans...

you wore in life...

and what the f*** would he know

about Giorgio Armani, anyway?

Johnny the Fox!

You're one daffy

in-vi-di-dual.

In-vi-di-dual?

Yes, sir.

J.C. Penney!

Even a freak don't deserve

to go down in some J.C. Penney!

Even a goddamn freak!

Slower.

Slower.

Like this?

Hey, you want to give

me a ride back to the Murrays'?

I don't think

I can drive.

So, clearly,

you hit that last night.

Yeah.

What was it like?

It was, uh,

it was good.

You tell her you knew?

Yeah, she was cool.

You came, didn't you?

Mrs. Murray,

what's going on?

Police won't come.

Had trouble before.

They say you want to charge

folks money to see your oddity,

then you got

to expect trouble.

What kind

of trouble?

So they won't make

the trip anymore.

You just got to wait

for the trouble to go away.

Dude, drink it.

Alligator Boy!

What's going on, guys?

Hey, meet Desmond,

the Alligator Boy.

Desmond's learning

to party.

Beer?

No, thanks.

Maybe you guys should

leave him alone.

How's that?

I said maybe you should

leave him alone.

Who are you, his mama?

No, no, it can't be

his mama.

His mama's in the house...

crying into her Bible.

Maybe this is

the boyfriend.

You the boyfriend?

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