Author's note: The chewing part didn't actually take as prominent of a role as I'd initially meant it to... but I kinda like the direction the story is going right now, so I'm just gonna roll with it.

Chapter 3

Success is the child of drudgery and perseverance. It cannot be coaxed or bribed; pay the price and it is yours. - Orison Swett Marden

He was alone. He was alone in the entire world. He had no one he could count on. It didn't use to be that way, but it was now, and it was entirely his own fault.

He didn't like to admit it, but on the rare occasions where Stan had actually worked up the nerve to be completely honest with himself, he knew that there was absolutely no way he was going to make it out of this on his own. The endless abyss of perpetual failure that his life had become, had grown too deep, and he, had grown far too comfortable wallowing in the muck at the bottom. With each passing year, and each figurative shovel full of dirt, it became more and more apparent that his only hope for redemption lay in someone else helping him get back up. If no one reached down to him, if no one offered him the little boost of motivation he needed to start climbing again, Stan was just going to keep sinking.

Now a days whenever he was faced with something that most would consider 'illegal', 'immoral', 'incredibly stupid', or ' that's seriously messed up, how could you possibly stoop so low', Stan would simply shrug his shoulders, plug his nose, and jump right in without a second thought.

'Meh, what the hell' had become his constant mantra. The way he saw it he was already at rock bottom, so why not just take out his pickaxe and start digging himself straight into perdition while he was there. At this point, it was probably easier to continue going down then it was to suddenly change directions anyways.

Really though, it wasn't like Stan didn't want to get out. He really did want to do better. He wanted to be successful, and he'd tried, he'd tried so hard to do it. But every time he now craned his neck up in an attempt to catch sight of his eventual goal, the distance between where he was now and where he'd wanted to be, could only be described as absolutely horrifying. And if he was feeling brave enough to bend his head back even further to catch sight of that person, standing atop a skyscraper with a college diploma in one hand and a check for an enormous sum of money in the other, he'd usually find himself overcome with the inexplicable urge to drown his discouragement in cheap booze and then pass out in a pile of empty Stan co. boxes.

Unfortunately, that person also happened to be the only one Stan could think of who might be willing to lend him the hand he needed if he were to ever consider asking him. He had seriously considered it, twice in fact, but ultimately decided against it both times. His reasons for doing so were comprised mostly of guilt, with a small pinch of resentment, and a big heaping helping excruciating shame.

After… the incident, that stupid mistake that had cost him his family, his home, and his best friend, he had never once tried to contact Stanley. Either he had gotten too busy with his own life to make the attempt, or he was still holding onto a grudge, or he just didn't care, or all of the above, it didn't matter. Stanley couldn't be the one to contact him first. At least… not without the money he needed to fix things in pocket. To do that would mean more than just admitting defeat. It would also mean admitting that everything his father had said about him, that everything everyone had ever said about him, had all been true. That he was a worthless loser, that he was stupid, that he was weak, that he was a parasite incapable of getting anywhere unless he was riding on his coattails. And honestly, if that was all Stanley really was, then he deserved better than to be burdened by Stanley's presence.

No, he had to contact Stanley first. If he needed Stanley, then… then Stanley was allowed to need him. If he wanted nothing to do with Stanley, which seemed very likely given the lack of communication for the past seven years… well…

He was alone in the world. He was alone and no one would miss him if he died. Stanley was surer of that than he was sure of anything else in his life right now.

It should have made him sad, but it didn't. It was making him angry.

Without thought, Stan grit his teeth and rammed his head forward against the back of the taillight sitting in front of him. The blow struck its target with a deep, skull-rattling thunk, and the initial meeting of sharp metal and soft flesh left his lips, brow, cheek, and chin, cut, bruised, and bleeding. Stan wasn't in a state of mind to notice minor abrasions. He threw his head against it again.

Stan Pines wasn't a man who was exactly known for his cool head. It didn't really take much to rile him up, or get on his bad side, and it was, unfortunately, one of the main reasons that he'd always had such a tough time making lasting friendships. Even those who only knew him for a short while were quick to discover, hopefully before any serious altercation occurred, that he could and would lose his temper at the drop of a pin. Hell, when he wasn't busy running away from his problems, he was usually trying to give them a good punch in the face.

But still, he'd never felt anything quite like this before. Nothing in all his years of rancorous outbursts, in all of his tantrums, tirades, and violent explosions meant to damage either himself or the people around him, not one of those instances even came close to the white-hot wrath that was consuming him right now. It was more powerful than a wildfire and more potent than a welding torch. It was a thick, glowing, molten metal that blistered every inch of his insides, and filled his head with a hazy, deep red.

It was an anger beyond fury. It was the anger of a wounded animal blindly charging at its hunter. The kind of anger that only comes to those who feel that they have nothing in their hearts left to lose; nothing, save for an utter hatred of their own existence, and the existence of the world around them.

It was more than enough to get Stan Pines up and moving again.

"IT WAS SUPPOSED TO BE US FOREVER!" He roared, striking headfirst yet again at the corner of the trunk that had become the focal point for his frustrations. Blood started seeping heavily from his torn skin, and the warm cascade trickled into his nose, eyes, and mouth. His heart beat against the confines of his ribcage with a deep aching pressure. But he could barely feel anything that was happening to his body. The searing heat within him was completely overwhelming, filling up his chest and drowning him in a tidal wave of outrage.

It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair! IT WASN'T FAIR!

He didn't want to be alone! He didn't want to only look out for, and care about himself. He'd never wanted that! He didn't want to feel like he was half of a whole person, or even less than half. He didn't want to feel like an un-functioning failure of a human being, just because his life was an utter wreck without him, but he was flourishing without Stanley.

This wasn't how his life was supposed to turn out! He shouldn't be fleeing from state to state, from country to country. Running away from the law, running away from the disappointment of his family, running away from him! He shouldn't be homeless, living out of his car. He shouldn't be spending his nights hunched over the top of the steering wheel, attempting to sleep through thick smothering heat, and frost-laced frigid cold; waking up with a cramped neck to empty silences and aching loneliness. He shouldn't be eating most of his meals at the local gas station convenience store, or fast food place, or, heaven help him, soup kitchen on the days when he was desperate enough. He shouldn't consider it a relief to get a chance to clean himself up in whatever cheap dingy motel room he'd managed scrounge out. Ones frequently plagued with miscellaneous fluid stains, or roach infested carpets, or mattress that reeked of urine, or dead rats that clogged up the shower drain. He shouldn't have to risk his life dealing with drug lords, loan sharks, gangsters, and thugs, just trying to earn enough money to buy back his family's acceptance. He wasn't supposed to be left behind.

No, no, no. He should be out on the open sea right now. He should be enjoying the cool salty breeze sweeping through his lungs and hair. He should be chilled by the spray of the ocean waves crashing like pinpricks upon his skin. He should be on hot sandy beaches, with hot sandy babes, watching breathtaking sunsets while gulls cried far above him. He should be sailing around the world in the Stan'O War, visiting places like Egypt, or Australia, or Japan, or Brazil, or England, instead of fleeing to or from those locations. He should be hunting for treasure like gold, or long lost manuscripts, or ancient artifacts, like he was some kind of famous adventurer. And most importantly, he should be doing all of this with the person he cared about more than anyone else in the entire world, right by his side.

He didn't care how stupid his dream was. He didn't care how childish, unrealistic, or unfeasible it was. It was all that he'd wanted ever since he was a little kid able to grasp the concept of hoping for a better tomorrow; and without ever really getting the chance to test it out the way he'd wanted to, he couldn't let it go.

If he had been with Stanley it could have worked. It would have worked.

"YOU STUPID JERK!" Stan's head struck the taillight again, and his nose cracked and bent under the force of his blow. He thought he might have also heard the sound of plastic snapping over the pounding of his won pulse in his ears.

"YOU STUPID, STUPID, SELFISH JERK!" And again.

"YOU LEFT ME BEHIND! YOU PROMISED THAT YOU WOULDN'T LEAVE ME BEHIND!" Tears of hot, bitter rage blurred his vision and streaked down the mess of blood and cuts that now marred his face. His voice was raw with hate and thick with misery. He hit it again.

"YOU." And again.

"RUINED." And again.

"MY." And again.

"LIFE!" After a final heave, the taillight of the car popped out, stunning Stan with the sudden influx of brilliant, blinding sunlight and hot fresh air. It also exposed the thick bundle of insulated wiring that gave the taillight its power. It took Stan a moment or two to calm down and gather his wits enough to piece together exactly what this meant; but when he finally did, he was absolutely ecstatic.

"Ha! Yes, yes!" Stan cheered as he quickly jerked his head back into the hot, dry, darkness that dominated the rest of his immediate surroundings. Perfect. Now he had something he actually could work with.

Stan lunged at the exposed wires; biting down on them as hard as he could, before stripping them bare with his teeth. The razor-sharp pointed metal strands tore at his gums, lips, tongue, and the insides of his cheeks, till they were a pulsing, fleshy, bleeding mess. He chewed and gnawed with the primal fury of a dog trying to bite off its own limb to free itself from a trap. He ground his teeth down till the nerves screamed under the pressure of his bite force, and the enamel chipped and cracked. Till the back of his dry throat was completely coated in the frothy mixture of spit, and the warm tang of iron.

After a few minutes of struggling he managed to successfully tear a piece off, and as he lay there with the strip of frayed, twisted wires clamped firmly in his mouth, he suddenly felt more accomplished than he ever had in the past seven years.

See, he didn't need him. He didn't need him at all. He didn't need anyone. This was what he was going to use to get himself out of there, and he had gotten it all by himself. He had earned it, had paid for it at the expense of his face, mouth, and a minimal chunk of his sanity. He was going to chew his way out of the trunk of a car, how many other people could say that they'd done something like that, huh? Stan bet he certainly hadn't.

"Poindexter's probably sitting in a nice cozy house somewhere," Stan muttered more than a little bitterly to himself, "eating three square meals a day; studying, n' researching, n' taking notes, n' doin' other dumb nerd things." Yeah, someone as cushy and soft as him probably couldn't have gotten out of a situation like this. But Stan was going to. He could get himself out of this mess just fine on his own.

Of course, it was still a bit too soon for him to celebrate. He wasn't done yet. While Stan could easily use the wires to pick himself free from the cuffs and chains, even from behind, he would need at least one of his hands free to do it.

Now that he was able to think a little more clearly, the answer came to him.

Oh, boy. This was going to hurt like hell. Luckily he already had something to bite down on.

Taking a deep hissing breath through his clenched teeth, Stan firmly grabbed the thumb on his right hand. He couldn't help but briefly hesitate while his insides started twisting and squirming around uncomfortably at the thought of what he was about to do. Stan quashed the fear as best he could. There wasn't any better way to do this, and he knew it.

The thumb was quickly jerked back with a sharp and brutal pressure. Stan gasped and gave a startled cry, which then shifted into a hoarse groan.

He hadn't been as prepared for the incoming torment as he'd thought, and it cost him dearly. His thumb was only halfway out of the socket, stuck at the point where the sudden influx of pain had startled him into stopping. Hot heavy breath forced its way through his nose for a few moments, and his left side stung with each large intake of air. His right hand twitched and curled in agony behind him.

But there was no helping it. He had to try again. He had to do this, or he really would die in this stuffy, blazing oven of a car trunk.

There was no deep breath before the plunge this time. Stan didn't want to risk giving himself the chance to think about the action he was going to take, or the very painful consequences. He gingerly grabbed the base of his thumb again, wincing as even that light touch sent splinters of pain arching up and down his wrist, and yanked even harder than he had previously. A small a twisting motion was added to the mix this time, just to be safe.

The thumb was completely forced out of place with a loud, nauseating, pop, and by making his right hand as small and slim as possible, Stan was able to wiggle, pull, and then finally slip the cuff all the way off.

He'd done it! He now had full… well ok maybe not so full considering the state of his thumb, but he had reasonable use of one of his hands. And that would be enough.

Stan lay there congratulating himself for a few moments, delirious with pain, heat and floating ecstasy of his accomplishment. The tenderness of his hand already seemed to be fading away. Now that he had a real means of escape, he could focus on that instead.