"I-I guess I could just skip dinner…" Ron muttered in the passenger seat of the Journey. The vehicle was so rusty and loud, it was amazing it was still on the road. Even more amazing Chef managed to live it in all his time in Sandy Shores. "Yeah… It's… It's not a big deal…" Ron spoke carefully, trying to push a little bit of guilt onto Chef for stealing his $20 without getting the meth cook too angry.
"How much you eat, anyway? I know guys who go weeks before they realize they haven't eaten shit." Chef said casually. Either he was just ignoring Ron's attempts, or he was just dense. Knowing what Ron knew about the man, it could be either. Ron leaned back in his seat. He wasn't gonna test his luck by trying to push it. "Some good crystal, man. That's all they need to keep going… Man, I could go for a bowl right about now…" He leaned back in his seat. One hand casually navigated the Journey through the desert, the other rested on the windowsill. Ron wish he hadn't said anything. He was still coasting through his high, but just at the mention of crystal he could feel the cravings, like little parasites, lying in wait within him. They made themselves known, crawling out of their hiding places behind his organs and making their way to the surface of his skin. He thought, if he could kill them right then and there when they were their weakest, he wouldn't need to worry about withdrawal. He dug his nails into the flesh of his arm. "I'm gonna stop at the gas station to light up before we get on the freeway. It'll be your only bathroom break til we get to Los Santos." "Alright," Ron pulled his hand away. There was blood on his fingertips that ran underneath his nails. He must have gotten one.
When Ron got back to the van, Chef was real keyed up. He rapidly tapped on the steering wheel, cracked his neck, and turned to look at Ron as soon as his fingers grazed the door handle. "Man, I'm fucking wired," were the first words to fly from his mouth when Ron opened the door. "I reckon we'll make it to Los Santos before sunrise."
"God I hope so," Ron replied, jumping into the passenger seat. In a clenched fist he held a wad of bloodied toilet paper. He was proud to say after taking a leak, he killed a whole lot of those meddling critters. Spots on his face were still wet with blood, so he pressed the sticky tissue to his skin again. Chef turned the key in the ignition and the engine clumsily sputtered to life. The Journey lurched forward before the engine died. Chef swore under his breath. "Jeez, Chef," Ron said matter-of-factly, "I know Trevor ain't taking none of your earnings. You could get yourself a better RV"
"Why'd I do that?" Chef started the Journey again. "S'long as she still runs, I don't need another one." Ron scoffed.
"Barely"
"Ah, she just needs some warming up, is all." After a few more tries, they were back on the road. The sun stayed behind in the Senora Desert. Its red dying light waved goodbye to Ron as the Journey turned onto the freeway. Ron just didn't feel comfortable in a car unless the road was bumpy. The smooth asphalt of the road made him feel like he was floating, detached from the world. The temperature of his blood dropped sharply. He could feel his heart pounding in his ears. In the far-off distance he could faintly hear Chef casually talking about his talk show, his voice growing more fervent as he provided his own take on the drones. Shut up, shut up Chef… He thought to himself. I need to focus… He dug his nails into the armrest, as if trying desperately to keep from floating away. He looked out the window, at the bright lights of the cars that rushed past. He wondered how many of the people in those cars were actually human. He tilted his head back and opened and closed his mouth like a goldfish.
"You doing alright?" Chef asked, glancing over at Ron.
"Yeah… yeah yeah yeah…" Ron murmured. "Just keep driving… It's… It's the frequencies in Los Santos. I must be sensitive to 'em."
"You sure you can do this?"
"I gotta Chef. He needs me."
The road never ended. It ran to the end of the world and then ran right off the edge. When the Journey turned onto the exit ramp, it started. Ron quickly rolled down the window. He greedily sucked in large gulps of air. He knew his lungs worked. He could feel the cold air running across his tongue. But it wasn't enough. Was the air thinner the closer you got to Los Santos? Did anyone there even need oxygen? His body convulsed in the seat. He had long since gave up on trying to stop the shaking. For the first time in a while, he felt cold. So cold. But Ron braved the harsh wind, because keeping the window down was the only way he'd be able to breathe. In Blaine County, when it was night, it was dark. You couldn't see anything an inch from your face. But here, even away from the blinding lights of the city, the backroads were almost as bright as day.
Chef pulled over to the side of the ride and turned to face Ron. "You ain't OD'ing in my car, are you?" He asked, the caring tone in his voice betraying his blunt use of words.
"N-nah nah… I'm good… I'm good. Just keep driving, Chef." Ron struggled to form each syllable. His mind kept going back to the air of Los Santos. God, was it killing him? Would the tainted air kill him before they even made it to the city? He could feel his heart pounding. He drew in air in frantic gasps.
Chef didn't move, but kept staring at Ron. Ron couldn't pull away from the window long enough to shoot him a glare. He didn't know why the cook cared so much. It's not as though he could do anything to help him. And he sure as hell couldn't take him to the hospital. Oh god… A wave a nausea ran over Ron at the thought of a hospital in Los Santos. He couldn't even begin to imagine the horrific things that happened there. They'd dissect him! They'd probe him! He wasn't about to get raped by a bunch of scaly sons of bitches. He opened the door of the RV and leaned out. He gagged and coughed, but nothing came out. "Shit man," Chef leaned in closer. "You sure you're alright? You can't find T if you're dead. How much crystal did you smoke?"
"I'm fine Chef!" Ron yelled. Don't talk about dying, you asshole! He slammed the door shut. He had to keep going. "Just drive!" The Journey turned onto the smooth road again and began its descent to the city. "I just gotta lay down for a bit…" Ron mumbled after a few moments passed and his heart had settled. He stood up and made his way to the bed in the back of the RV. Even with the RV gliding over the smooth asphalt, Ron stumbled and fell onto one of the back seats before he reached the bed. It felt like the bed was a mile away, but when he finally made it he curled up on top of the old musty sheets and stared at a poster of Hailey Downs that was peeling away from the wall. He somehow fell asleep while studying the curves of the model, trying to match them to the poster in Trevor's bedroom. He breath came out shaky on exhale. His hands rested lightly on his stomach. With this smooth road, he could pretend he was still, lying in Trevor's bed, waiting for his boss to get home.