You enter the truckstop bathroom, the scent of harsh cleansers and urinal cakes clashing in a depressingly familiar miasma with the scent of stale urine and cigarette smoke.
The omnipresent thrum of interstate traffic is cut off by the door closing, the sound of what can only be described as a violent constant shart echoing off the chipped and stained tiles of a room whose only other sound is a buzzing flickering neon light in a metal cage overhead.
Roll for perceptiondice clatter
You hear a cough and a latch undo itself on the far end stall, you walk past the sinks and cracked mirrors and approach the stall onto which a crudely drawn penis has been scratched. What do you do?
“I say, 'hey its ‘Twinker Rentboi’”
The door swings open on unmaintained hinges, your “date” is like so many before. The cowboy boots which were once brown, now stained with grease and dip spit, the formerly blue jeans with dark stains on the front of the thighs from countless greasy fast food fingers over thousands of miles being wiped on them, a brown belt with a confederate flag buckle holding back a heaving gut swathed in red flannel trying but failing to hide the gravy and ketchup stains and a battered once green John Deere trucker cap sits upon the head of a stubble faced ogre of a man who looks like he fell face first into a grease fire and it was put out with a hammer. He looks you up and down with a sour look on his face “You dont look like your picture boy! I aint payin $50 to cornhole some tweaker”
Roll to resist intimidation… pass. What do you say? “Fuck you redneck. If your picture was honest I wouldnt be here at all” The truck driving ogre chuckles “Come on in boy, I promise you, you gon earn this” and the door swings shut, its groaning hinges unheard over the stock pot of chilli being poured into the porcelain in the next stall.
Now I gotta know. DM it if you don’t think you should post it?
DM overly dramatic voice
You enter the truckstop bathroom, the scent of harsh cleansers and urinal cakes clashing in a depressingly familiar miasma with the scent of stale urine and cigarette smoke.
The omnipresent thrum of interstate traffic is cut off by the door closing, the sound of what can only be described as a violent constant shart echoing off the chipped and stained tiles of a room whose only other sound is a buzzing flickering neon light in a metal cage overhead.
Roll for perception dice clatter
You hear a cough and a latch undo itself on the far end stall, you walk past the sinks and cracked mirrors and approach the stall onto which a crudely drawn penis has been scratched. What do you do?
“I say, 'hey its ‘Twinker Rentboi’”
The door swings open on unmaintained hinges, your “date” is like so many before. The cowboy boots which were once brown, now stained with grease and dip spit, the formerly blue jeans with dark stains on the front of the thighs from countless greasy fast food fingers over thousands of miles being wiped on them, a brown belt with a confederate flag buckle holding back a heaving gut swathed in red flannel trying but failing to hide the gravy and ketchup stains and a battered once green John Deere trucker cap sits upon the head of a stubble faced ogre of a man who looks like he fell face first into a grease fire and it was put out with a hammer. He looks you up and down with a sour look on his face “You dont look like your picture boy! I aint payin $50 to cornhole some tweaker”
Roll to resist intimidation… pass. What do you say? “Fuck you redneck. If your picture was honest I wouldnt be here at all” The truck driving ogre chuckles “Come on in boy, I promise you, you gon earn this” and the door swings shut, its groaning hinges unheard over the stock pot of chilli being poured into the porcelain in the next stall.