>It’s been about four hours since you left the diner with your new wigger of a Waffegeist in tow. You now find yourself somewhere in Louisiana, your companion finally waking up after her long nap.

“Sleep well?” you ask, merging off the interstate and onto the off ramp.

>She nods as she sits upright, rubbing her eyes and stretching.

>”Ahh yeeeaah,” she groans. She looks out the window, blinking in the afternoon sunlight. “We stopping?”

“Yeah, I wanna stretch my legs and take a smoke break.”

>”Oh shit, what you got? I’d kill for a smoke.”

“Djarum Blacks, they’re pretty good.”

>”No Black&Milds? Damn.”

>She huffs and stares out the window, looking over to you every few seconds while letting out obviously exaggerated sighs. You finally let out your own sigh of defeat as you pull into a gas station.

“Fine, I’ll buy you a pack, sheesh.”

>You roll your eyes as you put the truck in park and slide off the leather seat. You immediately stretch and crack your back, a content sigh and groan escaping you. As you go to walk around to the back, you’re suddenly tackled hugged by your Hi-Point

>”Thanks, Anon, you the real MVP.”

>You tell her it’s no biggie and ask her to watch the truck while you run inside.

>Bladder emptied and a snack filled grocery sack in hand you return to the truck to find Hi-Point sitting on the dropped tailgate, legs swinging. You set an Arizona tea and a bag of skittles on the gate next to her.

“They didn’t have watermelon, but figured you’d still like it,” you comment as you begin pumping gas.

>”Oh shit, thanks Anon!” She quickly pops the top on the drink and tears open the candy, ingesting more sugar than she probably needs in one go. You can’t really say anything yourself, though, as you drink down a Mt. Dew Kickstart. 

>Blueberry Pomegranate best flavor.

>You notice her digging in the bag, obviously searching for her promised smokes. You clear your throat and hold them up above your head.

“Lookin for these?” you taunt.

>She pouts and runs around the pump and attempts to grab them from you, but you easily hold them up out of her reach. Your being six feet compared to her barely over five is anything but fair.

“After I move away from the pump.”

>”Maaaan, you’re such a damn buzzkill.” Grumbling, she goes back and climbs into the cab to wait for you.

>You join her a few minutes later, tank filled, and proceed to turn on and move your Ford to a parking spot on the side of the building to keep a safe distance from the fuel pumps. 

>A few moments later and you’re both sitting on the tailgate smoking, she her cheap cigars and you your cloves. You decide now is the best time to continue your questioning.

“So I ain’t all too keen on just callin you ‘Hi-Point’ all the time, yeah? The hell should I call you?”

>”Well, you’re my owner so it’s up to you, dawg,” she says, taking a long drag and exhaling through her nose.

“No input? No preferences?” You take a drag from your own smoke, slowly exhaling a bluish cloud, before taking a swig from your caffeinated beverage.

>”Just nothin too white or too black, yeah? I know I don’t wanna sound like I’m fresh off the boat or some basic white bitch.”

“Sam?”

>It just sort of pops out, no real thought, but she mulls it over in her mind. A sip of her tea and short drag 
and she says it aloud a few times.

>”Sam, Sam, Sam… Like, Samantha?”

“Or just plain ol’ Sam,” you shrug.

>”I dig it,” she nods. “You get the ‘don’t fuck with my girl Sam’ vibe from it, along with ‘Girl, you gotta see the new sling Sam got!’” 

>You smile and stick your clove between your lips and offer your hand.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Sam.”

>She looks at your hand then back to you before shaking her head and laughing. She then reaches and folds your hand into a fist before attempting a complicated fist bump, handshake combo that leaves you flopping your hand about.

>”… Damn you’re so fuckin’ white,” she groans, draining the last of her Arizona.

“Like you can talk,” you retort, taking a final drag before tossing the butt to the ground and grinding it out with your shoe. 

>As you stretch a few more times and Sam climbs into the truck, a rusting, sagging sedan pulls into a spot a few down from you. Two Latinos in baggy jeans and ratty t-shirts climb out and make their way in your direction.

>You nod at them before going to open the driver’s door, thinking that they’re simply going to pass you by to head into the gas station. This changes in an instant, however, as you notice their reflection in your tinted window as they approach you from behind.

“Can I help you guys?” you ask, hand resting on the Glock under your shirt.

“Yeah, maen, ju got any spare cash?”

“Sorry man, I don’t carry cash.”

“Then how bout them cards, esse.”

>One lifts his shirt and lays a hand on what seems to be a Jimminez .380 that he’s got tucked in his waistband, 
the other pulling a switchblade from his pocket.

“Twice in 24 hours?” you groan.

>You make to draw the Glock from its Alien Gear holster but you and the beaners stop all movement when a fourth joins the standoff.

>”Bitch ass niggas, best getcho fuckin hands in the mofuckin air!” Sam barked, rifle aimed at the two would be muggers.

>Wait, rifle?

>She’s holding... herself?

>Sure enough, she’s holding a Hi-Point carbine in her hands, factory mag loaded.

>The taco munchers realize shit just got real and the knife falls to the ground as the two quickly raise their hands above their heads.

“W-we were just playin, homes,” the pistolero stutters, eyes wide.

“Dude, tell your chicka to drop the piece and we’ll go!”

>”Just say the word, Anon, and I’ll smoke these fuckboys!”

>She’s practically jumping at the chance to gun them down, her finger twitching on the trigger.

>Drawing your Glock and aiming it at the two, you walk over and gently push the carbine barrel down towards the ground.

“Get the fuck out of here before I call the cops or pop a cap in your sorry asses,” you spit, gesturing with your pistol.

>The two nearly trip over one another as they scramble into their quesadilla cart and speed out of the parking lot.

>As they drive off, Sam tries to shove past you, flipping the safety off.

“Don’t even think about it, lil’ miss wigger,” you snap, pulling the carbine from her grip. As it fully leaves her hands, it disappears. 

>Fuckin hoodrat magic.

>”Anon, you gon’ let those mofuckin spics get away with that shit?” she argues. “Shoulda put them in the ground when we had the chance!”

>She reaches behind her and pulls the carbine out of thin air once again.

>”Let’s get after those fuckbois and do a drive-by!”

“Sam, get in the fuckin’ truck,” you order, pointing with your Glock hand.

>”But I- “

“Now.”

>Grumbling and stuffing her hands into her hoody pocket, carbine disappearing once more, she climbs back into the F150 as you hurriedly holster your Glock and climb into the driver’s seat. 

“The fuck was that shit?” you ask as you pull out of the gas station parking lot. “Like, thanks for savin my ass, but why the fuck were you tryin to take a potshot at them when they were runnin scared?”

“Nigga, you can’t let these fuckbois cross you and get away with it!” she huffs, crossing her arms over her bust. “Fuck em up!”

“Sam, that’s not how it works,” you groan. “They were just a couple of beaners who thought they were hotshit, let em go home and clean their underwear while explainin themselves to their mom. You wanna get confiscated by some small town cops because you were used in a shooting?”

>She stares out the window, a scowl across her face as she pouts. She mumbles something that you can’t quite make out.

“What was that?” 

>She doesn’t say anything or look away from the window.

“Fine, don’t answer me,” you grunt.

>It’s gonna be a long trip.