Author's note: Slightly shorter chapter this time, but there's gonna be a lot of action in the next couple ones.

Chapter 2

Men fail much oftener from want of perseverance than from want of talent. - William Cobbett

If there was a lesson to be learned from this less than ideal situation, (Stan had to pause to laugh at that. Him? Actually learning from his mistakes? It was never going to happen.) it was that trying to cross the leader of one of the most powerful weapon and drug cartels in all of Colombia, was a very dumb idea. This was especially true when the crime lord in question also just so happened to be one of your former 'prison buddies', and apparently hadn't taken much of a liking to you while you'd both been holed up in there. Oddly enough their other cellmate, a loan shark by the name of Rico, hadn't really taken much of a liking to Stan while he'd been there either (He couldn't imagine why, Stan personally found himself to be very likable).

Wait; speaking of Rico, didn't he owe that guy some money?

…

Well, all things considered, that was really the least of his worries right now. Besides, even if he wasn't particularly fond of Stan, Rico still seemed like a pretty reasonable guy. Stan was confident that he'd never have to worry about him pulling something like… like…

"What's the guys name again? Jerry… Jose… Jorge? Wait Jorge, yeah!" That had been it. Stan was confident that he'd never have to worry about Rico pulling something like Jorge had. Probably.

Stan gave a low groan. It really shouldn't have been that hard for him to remember important details about his current predicament. Important details, for example, like the name of the drug lord that he'd somehow managed to piss off. The blow he'd received to the back of his head sometime last night however, was reacting badly with his dehydration-induced headache, and it made thinking a very painful and sluggish process. He could barely even remember how he'd gotten his injuries. Or how he'd ended up in the trunk of a car. Or what exactly had gone wrong with the scam he'd been trying to pull on Jorge and his merry band of thugs in the first place.

He thought he might have recalled some kind of scuffle happening? That probably explained how he'd gotten stabbed, though thankfully the wound wasn't too deep or else he would have bled to death already. He also remembered something about being outnumbered, and some long-winded speech about leaving him to a fate worse than death. Blah blah blah. You know, the usual.

What had he even done to Jorge anyways? Had he been trying to steal money from the guy? Or, wait no. Even though Stan was always a slut for fast cash, he wasn't that stupid. No, he remembered now. Someone else had stolen money from Jorge, and Stan had agreed to help smuggle the guy into the U.S. for a decent cut of the haul.

Who had that man been again? Was he still alive?

Stan's head was throbbing, pulsing against a thick white wall of static.

"Doesn't matter." He mumbled, trying to dismiss his unease about the other man's condition. It wasn't like there was much Stan could do for him now, whatever his fate had been. And it wasn't like he was Stan's responsibility either. Hell, he was the one who had gotten Stan into this mess in the first place; a mess which he was now not going to get paid for. Wasn't that just great.

After what had happened with Stanfo-. After what had happened with him, Stan had learned that it was best to really only look out for number one anyways. That was certainly all anyone else ever did.

"Gotta get outta here quick," he rasped to himself a little louder, trying to regain his focus "or I'm gonna end up like one of Ma's burnt fish dinners." The temperature of the air around him certainly felt appropriate for one of his mother's culinary disasters.

Yes, getting out of there. That was all he had to do. That was it. He just needed to come up with a way of doing it without the use of his arms, or legs, and with the left side of his abdomen screaming at him like it was no one's business. He could do that.

…

He had no idea how he was going to do that.

This was honestly one of the worst situations he could ever recall getting himself into.

Stan tried to pump himself up a more few times. He tried to convince himself that it would all turn out all right. That all he needed to do was loosen his bonds a bit, find a way out of the locked trunk, maybe hotwire the car to get himself back to civilization (Who's car was this anyways? It certainly wasn't the Stanley mobile), and then he'd be back to fleecing idiots with faulty products by the end of tomorrow. Unfortunately for Stan's quickly fraying nerves it wasn't really in his nature to be an optimist, and for all the skill he employed in lying to others, he wasn't particularly great at lying to himself.

He tested the bonds on his wrists and ankles for a second time, and then a third, and then a fourth, and then a fifth time. He writhed and flexed, and stretched without regard to the protests of his banged up body. He tried maneuvering around in the cramped space so he could prop himself up in a better position.

Nothing. Nothing was budging even an inch. He had no wiggle room.

Stan's heart started beating very loudly and quickly in his chest.

He lay there for a moment in the boiling darkness, racking his brains for some way, any way, to get out of this mess. Nothing came to him. The small ball of dread that had been slowly growing in the pit of his stomach, blossomed suddenly into a large thorny tangle of terrified despair, and for a few moments Stan found himself struggling just to keep his breathing even. His eyes stung from a mixture of sweat dripping into them, and tears that he was trying his hardest not to let drip out.

Now was not the time to panic. That wasn't going to do him any good.

Keeping calm wasn't doing him much good either. Nothing was doing him any good.

The heat in the trunk of the car was simply put, unbearable, and it was growing worse and worse each second that he stayed in there. His shirt, which had been completely soaked with sweat by the time he'd finally snapped out of his feverish nightmare, was now almost dried, and his tongue was starting to feel like a heavy woodchip resting just above his parched aching throat. He was suffering from heat exhaustion that was quickly turning into full-blown heatstroke. He needed to cool down, and he needed water, and he needed both about half an hour ago.

He was hot. He was thirsty. He was trapped. And he was going to die in here.

In a fit of near hysterical desperation, he yanked on the sharp, scorching metal cuffs that encircled his wrists, hard and fast, again and again. He kicked, and squirmed, and screamed, till the muscles in his legs were in burning with exhaustion and the skin on his wrists was torn and bleeding.

This wasn't doing him any good. Of course thrashing about mindlessly wasn't doing him any good! But what else could he do?!

"Oh come on, come on. This can't be happening, there has to be a way!"

If he could just get his hands free, he could do something with that! Aside from himself however, the trunk was completely empty. While Stan was no amateur when it came to getting himself out of handcuffs, he would at least need something to pick them with. Why couldn't he have at least had that!?

He didn't even have the luxury of being able to think with a clear head.

Between the sharp pain in his side, and the dull pounding ache in back of his head, and the sweltering broiling heat that ravaged his body, and the scorching breathless fear that had taken hold of his reason, and the warm delirious meandering of his thoughts, and the slowly rising tide of hopeless bitterness in his chest, there was just no way he could think rationally. It was too crowded in there. Thinking of a way out was impossible.

He couldn't get out. It was impossible.

Despair squeezed firmly around his heart, and it was almost enough to make him give up then and there.

The worst part of it all was the fact that his death wasn't even going to be mourned by anyone.

Stan Pines wasn't exactly well liked by your average model citizen, or even by the criminal underbelly. He was a creature that didn't really fit into either world, but lurked in a purgatory between the two. Not noble or competent enough for one, and not quite brutal or heartless enough for the other. He was a lying, cheating, shyster. An opportunistic, lowlife grifter. A snake oil salesman. A petty crook. He'd never done anything beneficial for anyone but himself, and he hadn't really even done such a good job of that.

If he were to just disappear off the face of the earth right now, no one would even miss him. Not family, not friends (friend in the singular, he thought, because he'd really only ever had one), not anybody.

He'd die without ever having the chance to make amends, to make things right between himself and …

The truth of that last thought struck Stan with all the force of a train hitting a small fuzzy rodent, and he felt himself being pinned down under the colossal weight of it.

Drained, weakened, and drowsy with heat, Stan could do nothing for a long while, but lie paralyzed in a listless stupor.