You ease your grip on the wheel of your '98 Ford Explorer as your eyes drink in the endless miles of highway stretched out before you. Undaunted, you coast on; hours and towns slipping away like sand in the wind. You pull off on a tiny dirty road, your thirst begging to be quenched.  A quaint, mom and pop convenience shop stands before you and you graze the barrels of fresh jerky before ultimately settling on an ice cold root beer. You pop the top off of a Barq's, and take a meaningful swig before arriving at the register. "Can I get a pack of smokes?" You ask the weathered man behind the counter. He obliges. "That'll be $6.48," he announces softly. "What's this town called anyways?" You ask him while peeling off a five and two one's from the bundle of cash in your pocket. His eyes come alive and he tips his cap, "Welcome to Goof City."