Paul Brown was a cautious man. He always looked, not thrice, but six times before crossing the street, and he was never to be seen on busses as they lacked seat belts. Paul Brown was a cautious man, so it was completely unlike him to get lost on a little dirt road outside of Hell, it's only residents being the mice and crickets that lived in a little decrepit shack. Most would laugh at the name, 'Hell' but yes, it was actually where Paul lived, and yes, it was actually a town. Paul, cautious as he may be, had no control over the route his GPS chose for him in his mad dash to leave the place. So here he was, on a little dirt road when a small red light in the corner of his dashboard turned on, screaming a silent cry for him to service his engine. Paul glanced at it, and sighed. Perhaps if he kept going, he could make it to the next town? He pressed the side button on his door to roll his window down, and he could feel the gusts of wind brushing against his face and raking through his hair as if it were autumn leaves. He glanced up at the sky, which was darkening faster by the minute. Somewhere deep down he knew. He knew that his car wouldn't make it, for the low bassline rumbling of the car he was used to had mutated into something new, something wrong. Paul, however, was also a sedulous, and a stubborn when the time called for it. He kept driving in hopes of reaching a town, any town, where he could get car service.
He never did. Paul's eyes met the orange orbs of a deer shown by the headlights. He swerved to the left as the deer bounded across the makeshift road, and as he swerved, it was too dark, far too dark, and his car carelessly collided with a tree, bark and bits of metal flying. In that moment, Paul thought of his few friends back home. In that moment, Paul thought he was going to die. But in that moment, Paul didn't. As Paul screamed and the airbag deployed, he sat gasping, bits of bloodied glass covering his arms. Paul groaned horribly, shuddering. Well, at least he was still alive, that was a plus. In the distance he could hear an owl hooting, a monotonous cry of 'Who… who?'
Paul slowly exited the vehicle. He didn't know why he did it so slowly, but he was a little surprised and a little shocked, so he supposed he deserved that. He stood up on his two shaky legs, and he noticed that even though he had slashes all across his arms as if the deer had raked him with its antlers he felt no pain. It was a peculiar turn of events for one of the most cautious men in the world to get in a car accident due to a deer, but here he was, unharmed for the most part and breathing heavily.
So with his sliced open arms by his side, he began walking to the shack in the corner of his vision, the moonlight reflecting off of the shattered windows making it barely visible in the night. Perhaps he thought that the run down porch would collapse under his weight, (which wasn't much anyways), but surprisingly, the seat remained quite solid. He could barely make out dozens of small shapes scurrying away from him as he sat, but barely wasn't enough to block out his eyes. Rats? No, too large. Roaches, more likely.
Paul grimaced. He never really had a problem with insects until he had to be near them, and he rarely went outside. Every bug that dared venture into his house was either swatted, or taken outside on a piece of paper if Paul was in a good mood. But Paul had no room to be picky as it was either this or the ground. He sat there a good while, wondering what to do. And the conclusion he came to was what led him, Paul, a cautious man, to go hitchhiking in the midnight autumn weather, with his only company being a noisy owl.
He walked back to the road, and stood there, his hand waving in the wind like a flag and waited. It was a good twenty minutes before Paul saw a car pass by, and a good hour until one picked him up. The first car passed him by without a second glance from the driver, but that didn't stop Paul's excitement from catching when he saw the headlights come down the road.
The second car was green and would have blended into nature effortlessly without it's singular headlight to illuminate the dirt road. In fact, Paul initially assumed it to be a motorcycle as he could only pick out one headlight, but as it approached he realized it was, in fact a car. The car passed him by a few meters, and Paul's could practically feel the hope draining from his body until it paused, and went into reverse. The driver rolled the window down.
"Need a ride?" the stranger asked, in a deep male voice.
Paul glanced warily at the car, but decided that he didn't have much room to be carping and said "Yes," simply, shortly. The stranger seemed to notice the blood coating his arms and remarked jokingly, "A true Monday in Hell, I suppose." Paul faked a laugh. The driver pressed a black button on his dashboard and the passenger seat swung open, inviting Paul in. The car itself smelled of air fresheners. Paul noted how the seats were torn in shreds, especially the passenger seat as if some ignorant fool had decided to put a lion inside the vehicle and have a nice game of wrestling with it. Paul wondered why the seats were so ruined, but he paid it no mind. Perhaps he should have. In the distance the owl's hooting turned to mindless screeches, as if warning its kin of a terrible monster nearby about to get off of it's gore matted haunches and pounce.
As he sat down the door closed and he noticed how there was no handle from the inside to exit the car on the passenger side. He gulped, but then pinned it down on college students not having the finances to pay for repairs. The man appeared to be in his early twenties. Paul's mind screamed at him how this was a horrible idea. He really should have listened to himself, as when the car started he knew it was too late to turn back. It was like getting on a rollercoaster with a massive drop and beginning to regret it as soon as it starts climbing upwards, leaving you waiting anxiously for it's inevitable descent. Paul was silent for the majority of the ride until the stranger asked him for his name. A part of Paul didn't want to say his real name, but really what harm would it do?
"My name is Paul."
"What?" said the stranger.
"I said, my name is Paul."
"Oh! Uh... I thought you were a woman. I'm Carl, by the way."
Carl smiled briefly and turned to Paul who looked over his shoulder and gave the stranger, no, Carl a good long stare. He paused, opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again then said, "Why would you think that?"
Caul paused thoughtfully only to immediately resume his grin.
"Mostly the hat. Are you sure?"
Paul huffed indignantly. Of course he knew he was a man. What, did this guy want him to check or something? He paused, then said flatly, "Of course I'm sure, Carl." The ride went on with more jokes of bad taste from Carl and more deadpans from Paul. It was like a value pack of awful conversations, but Paul had to admit that he grinned at a handful of Carl's jokes, and Carl kept his eyes on Paul waiting for a response. It was mildly creepy, to say the least. Eventually, Paul figured he would stop being rude and say his thanks. "So, thanks for picking me up! But like, how do you know I'm not a serial killer or something?" Carl chuckled deeply, a sudden change in his personality evident. "Well, Paul, the chance of there being two serial killers in one car is phenomenally low."
Paul laughed, but it was a little more faked this time, and suddenly the engine stopped, a dead look in Carl's eyes. The keys glistened in the moonlight like shining knives. Perhaps they were.