“So tell me about this chicken outside, The Mann. I thought this place was the North already. Why the big, Southern mascot, then?”
“Do you like this song? The *black* Elvis, not the white one. Listen to that smooth, jazz-cat voice, eh?”
“Now, now. You’re switching subjects on me again, white man. But — then again, I guess if you’re playing the black Elvis on the jukebox then this has to be the North.”
“Well,” and The Mann turned around to look at the chicken, “we have interlopers here still. *Close* to the South here. But when you reached this truck stop you could feel safe and breathe freely once more. Just a sim down on Route 8: a different story potentially. No trust there yet.”
“Where did you get your car?” I asked, looking outside myself but in a different direction.
“Bought it from some dude who hailed from Pipersville. Heard of it? Sweet deal. Only 60,000 lindens — *no* shipping.”
But then the man in front of me changed. I was speaking to Keith B. again. Or was it Kevin A.? Of the Kevin Orchardsity trio. Time and Space and *Options* were still unstable here.
And who was I?
Better get further North. Totally away from the Chicken People.