Post by Trent Page on Jun 16, 2019 16:44:25 GMT -5
The sun sits high in the air over the muggy Savannah afternoon. There is no wind.
The only sound is the high pitched screech of cicadas hovering over the day. Most birds even have more sense than to be out on a day like this. In the middle of this heat drenched hellscape sits a lone road, cutting through a large swath of prairie. The flat land quickly gives way to thick, mostly untouched forest. The only blemish being a small path, just big enough for a car, that winds through gnarled tree trunks and uneven ground. Leaves and branches litter the path that leads through the thick trees, back to a small, secluded trailer home.
Through the humming of bugs comes the sound of a car engine purring in the distance. A long, sleek, luxury car slowly pulls itself through the path, and into the small clearing that houses the trailer. It stops for a moment, the engine dying, before a short, trim old man in a full chauffeur’s outfit exits the driver’s side. He makes his way around the car, and opens the rear door. From inside the car unfolds the frame of a nearly seven foot tall Scott Savage.
Gone are the hulking muscles and long, black hair of his wrestling days. Replaced by a sharp, lanky frame, and short, dark hair with patches of gray at the temples. His face has thinned out, but it’s unmistakeably him. A perfectly tailored black and red suit hugs his limbs, as he adjusts the crimson tie. He grimaces at his surroundings, and approaches the small home.
Almost walking up the small set of steps, he pauses and thinks better of it. Instead he opts to makes his way to the side of the front door, reaching up to knock. This is met with two loud explosions, followed instantly by two fresh bullet holes being blown in the flimsy door. Wood splinters fly everywhere, and a flock of birds reluctantly take flight from a nearby tree.
Scott: Okay...now that that’s over, do you want to talk? Or are you just going to shoot at me some more?
There is a pause, and the damaged door swings open with a bang. The face that peeks itself out into the sun is that of a man who’s seen more than his fair share. His eyes squint against the light, making his crow’s feet even more noticeable than they already were. A long, greying mane of hair covers his head and face as he looks back and forth. When his eyes come to rest on the face of his old friend, the look of confusion turns to one of anger.
Trent:Leave before I shoot again.
He goes to slam the door, but Scott puts his hand up to stop it.
Scott:You don’t want to ignore me this time.
Trent lets out a low growl from behind his unkempt beard, but lets go of the door.
Trent:What the hell do you want?
Scott:It’s not about me. It’s about you. I found someone that wants to give you a shot.
Trent gives him a look of disbelief, before leaning against the door jam, and fishing a cigarette out from his matted nest of hair. He slides the filter into his mouth, and lights the end with a cheap, plastic lighter. Taking a deep drag, Trent exhales a plume of grey smoke toward Scott, who seems unphased.
Trent:So what? Some mercenary shit? Or do you have some rival dealer you need taken out? You know the feds are still watching me.
Scott:I’m legit now. I manage talent...and I’m talking about wrestling again.
The cigarette hangs from Trent’s mouth, already forgotten.
Trent:Fuck you.
Scott:I’m serious Tr-
Trent:So am I, Hellboy. Are you fucking kidding me? You don’t talk to me in four years, and suddenly you just walk up to my door like nothing happened? On top of that, you’re going to tell me you’re here to get me to wrestle on the piss ant, high school gym, beer show circuit.
Scott:I’m not talking about some indy shit show! I’m talking about Alpha Pro Wrestling.
Trent stops, taking another drag, and blowing the smoke out violently.
Trent:God dammit…
He steps inside, and motions for Scott to do the same. The interior of the trailer seems almost a portal forty years back in time. Wood paneling covers every wall, and the floor is lined with an almost nauseating brown and green shag carpet. Empty cigarette packs and bullet casings litter what little counter space is available.
Scott:Good lord, Trent. You live like this?
Trent:Sorry to offend your big city sensibilities, Hellboy, but not all of us can park our asses on Madison Avenue and pay an illegal immigrant to clean our shit. I wasn’t expecting company. Haven’t had any in almost a year now.
Scott:Shooting at anyone who knocks tends to keep people away.
Trent:I was hoping. Tell me about Alpha Pro before I toss you back out there.
Scott:They want an old hand. Someone who’s been around to draw in some interest.
Trent:An aging nostalgia act.
Scott pinches the bridge of his nose, and lets out a long sigh.
Scott:Yeah...basically that is what they want, but that’s not what I am offering you. What I’m offering you is a chance to take that attitude, and stick it back down their throats. What I’m offering you is the chance to show the entire wrestling world that a man they all thought was a broken down old mess is still one of the most explosive talents in the industry. I want you to be the fire that gets out of control and makes them regret ever lighting you back up.
Trent flops down on a creaky metal futon, and brushes the greying hair from his eyes.
Trent:I can’t. I got a good life here.
Scott lets out an indignant laugh.
Scott:What in the name of Nick Bockwinkel are you talking about?! You have a rusted out trailer in the middle of the land that God forgot, and a dead end bouncer job in some swamp. You have nothing. I am offering you one last shot at everything you have ever wanted.
Trent:You don’t have the faintest fucking clue what I want. You never did. It was always about money with you. I could give a fuck about your bottom line.
Scott:It doesn’t matter what you’re about, moron! This isn’t about personal politics, it’s about the one thing we both believe in. It’s about the survival of the fittest. It’s about setting you loose on professional wrestling, and weeding out the useless, entitled, lazy wannabes that don’t belong… of course maybe I was wrong about you. Maybe you’ve become one of the lazy complacent slobs we used to despise. Maybe you dove head first into the comfort of your private life, and stopped caring about achieving anything. I mean look at you. It looks like you haven’t showered or shaved since the last time I saw you. I know you don’t want my advice, but here it is. Find a reason to get it together, or you’re going to die in this tin box, and nobody is going to find you for years.
Scott tosses a manilla envelope down on the futon next to Trent, followed by a small, black cell phone.
Scott:Call me when you’re ready to be Trent Page again. That guy had passion. They want your first match to be with Masuda Jubei. He’s no joke. Be ready.
Scott makes his way out of the trailer, with Trent offering nothing to stop him. The disheveled man sits in his ramshackle home, staring at the envelope placed before him. He listens to Scott’s car turn around, and drive away, growing quieter and quieter until it disappears entirely. Once the silence returns, he rises to his feet, and makes his way to the closet sized bathroom that sits right next to the kitchen.
____ _ _ _ __ __ ___
Later that night, Trent sits behind the wheel of his rusted out old Camaro, making his way through the winding, unlit back roads. He looks in the rear view mirror, still slightly jarred by the re-emergence of his sharp chiseled jawline from behind his former beard. His hair is now also shaved close, almost in a flat top style. He gets a look at the bags under his eyes, and moves them back to the road.
A dim light in the distance signals the approach of the Dew Drop Inn. The unkempt wooden building is surrounded by brown grass, and cars that don’t look like they should be able to run. He comes to a stop between two rusty trucks, and climbs out of his car. Making his way up the wooden stairs, he ignores the two drunk idiots fighting on the lawn. Pushing into the bar, the familiar scent of cigarette smoke and stale whiskey hits Trent’s nose just before the sound of old, crackling country music greets him from the worn out jukebox.
He moves across the shifting floor boards, dodging a few wobbling drunks, before making it to the tiny employee room in the back. He clocks in quickly, trying not to make eye contact with the cooks in the corner, who are having a very quick, very impassioned discussion in spanish. Making his way to the floor, it takes no time at all before the sound of a wooden table being demolished in the far corner of the room alerts him to a fight breaking out. He looks to one of his much closer colleagues, an overweight, balding man who seems more interested in watching the fight than stopping it. Trent rolls his eyes, and shoves his way through the crowd, having a difficult time getting to the intoxicated combatants. When he does, he grabs them each by the collar, and starts dragging them toward the door.
Trent:You don’t come into my bar and break shit. You fuckin’ hicks can take this outside.
He throws open the door, and tosses both men out onto the lawn. Neither seems to notice, as their fight continues right where it left off. Trent then spins around, glaring a hole in the coworker who failed to act.
Trent:And what the fuck is wrong with you? Huh, Dell? Too busy being a stupid fat fuck to do your god damn job?!
Dell:Hey, fuck you, city boy. That wasn’t nothin’ but a little scuffle.
Trent steps forward with vigor and slaps him in the right ear, before doing the same to the left. The man shouts, and collapses, holding his head as he lays on the ground.
Trent:Piece of advice, if your dumb ass can still hear it. Get your shit together. You’re a fuckin’ loser, and you’re going to stay that way..
Trent walks toward the door, and steps out into the muggy night air. Whatever fights were happening are gone now. Replaced only by the sound of surrounding wildlife, and the dim hum of music coming from the building behind him. Trent sits in the driver’s seat of his vehicle for a few minutes, before turning on the dome light, casting an eerie shadow over his face. He then pulls out the phone Scott gave him, and sets it on the dashboard, before hitting record.
Trent:Alright, listen up, maggots, ‘cause we’re diving right in, and I’m only gonna say this once. I’m not gonna do the typical “I’m a legend, bow before me, blah blah blah” bullshit you’ve all heard before. I’m not worried about whether or not you know me, I don’t give one shit about the past. What I care about is the future… mine and yours. As of this moment, they seem intertwined. I’m coming to APW with one thing on my mind: destroying everyone you love and tearing down everything you believe in.
Trent rubs his chin, savoring the odd sensation of being able to touch the skin on his face. He cracks his neck, then his knuckles, before continuing.
Trent:Let me tell you a story. A story about me. You see, I’ve been sitting at home, out of the game for almost four years. In that time I have watched the people in this country, and fans of this sport in particular, devolve into lazy, mindless, entitled wastes of flesh and bone. You have watched the world crumble around you, and what have you done about it? Delved deeper into your vices. Numbed your already inadequate brains with drugs and liquor, instead of standing up and facing the challenges of your day.
Each and every one of you has had the opportunity to stand up and do something that matters, and what have you done? Every last one of you sat there with your thumb up your ass, doing absolutely nothing. You watched as real men, men with ambition and talent did things you were too lazy and frightened to even try. Now I’m here to show you what it’s like when none of that exists anymore. When you can no longer live vicariously through these men. When you have no choice but to look in the mirror and see the abject failure that you’ve become. When there are no more distractions…
Trent’s eyes have gone bloodshot, and the veins in his neck have begun to bulge. His stare grows more intense and his speech becomes slower, and more deliberate, but not any louder.
Trent:See, I’m not here to prove anything to you brain dead humanoids. I’m not here to win. I’m not here to make anyone feel good. I’m here only to destroy. I’m not interested in your tournaments, your titles, or your win/loss records. I don’t give a shit if you chant my name, or throw garbage at me. What I want most is to grab your world by the throat, and squeeze until it stops struggling. I have no interest in being your king. In standing atop the pile of shit you’ve called a kingdom for so long. My only joy will come in walking away from it as it crumbles.
Trent closes his eyes, and takes a deep breath. His bubbling rage seems to fade, as he comes back to his speech with renewed poise.
Trent:I suppose this is the part where I should say something about Jubei. Talk about how I hate him too...well I don’t. Don’t get me wrong, he’s scum, but at least with people like him, you know where you stand. Jubei is all about Jubei. No gray areas, no questions. He doesn’t pretend to be some fuckin’ hero. He’s just here to get his and get out...really is a shame for him that he’s about to run head first into me. It’s really nothing personal, Masuda San, but I have no choice but to destroy you.
I wish my first victim could have been someone else, one of their paper heroes, but regardless, you must now serve as an example. In order to properly articulate my point, I’m going to have to put your head on a fuckin’ pike. I’m going to have to Jackson Pollock the canvas with your blood, and show everyone what happens when you run across a human molotov cocktail with nothing to lose. This isn’t about you. It’s not even about me. It’s about the angel of death descending on professional wrestling, and not leaving until the smug, complacent scum of the world have been left with absolutely nothing.
Trent finally gives in, and pulls a cigarette from the visor of the car, and slips the filter between his lips. With a flick of his wrist, he produces a flame, and turns the end a glowing orange. Taking a deep drag, he exhales with a deep sigh.
Trent:I have one goal. You don’t have to take me seriously now. That’s fine. Watch what I do to Masuda Jubei. Watch the symphony of blood and carnage I create, watch the destruction I bring, and know that I’m here to spare no hostage. Only death follows in my wake, no mercy. Only your pain sustains me. The only thing that motivates me is the mental image of your world in ruins, and a new one rising from its ashes. Violent? Sure. Over the top? Perhaps, but I’m not here for your comfort. I’m here for your head. Sleep well, APW fans. Your nightmare begins Monday.
Trent turns the key in the ignition, and brings the car to a whining start, before shutting off the camera app, and taking off down the long, dirt road.
The only sound is the high pitched screech of cicadas hovering over the day. Most birds even have more sense than to be out on a day like this. In the middle of this heat drenched hellscape sits a lone road, cutting through a large swath of prairie. The flat land quickly gives way to thick, mostly untouched forest. The only blemish being a small path, just big enough for a car, that winds through gnarled tree trunks and uneven ground. Leaves and branches litter the path that leads through the thick trees, back to a small, secluded trailer home.
Through the humming of bugs comes the sound of a car engine purring in the distance. A long, sleek, luxury car slowly pulls itself through the path, and into the small clearing that houses the trailer. It stops for a moment, the engine dying, before a short, trim old man in a full chauffeur’s outfit exits the driver’s side. He makes his way around the car, and opens the rear door. From inside the car unfolds the frame of a nearly seven foot tall Scott Savage.
Gone are the hulking muscles and long, black hair of his wrestling days. Replaced by a sharp, lanky frame, and short, dark hair with patches of gray at the temples. His face has thinned out, but it’s unmistakeably him. A perfectly tailored black and red suit hugs his limbs, as he adjusts the crimson tie. He grimaces at his surroundings, and approaches the small home.
Almost walking up the small set of steps, he pauses and thinks better of it. Instead he opts to makes his way to the side of the front door, reaching up to knock. This is met with two loud explosions, followed instantly by two fresh bullet holes being blown in the flimsy door. Wood splinters fly everywhere, and a flock of birds reluctantly take flight from a nearby tree.
Scott: Okay...now that that’s over, do you want to talk? Or are you just going to shoot at me some more?
There is a pause, and the damaged door swings open with a bang. The face that peeks itself out into the sun is that of a man who’s seen more than his fair share. His eyes squint against the light, making his crow’s feet even more noticeable than they already were. A long, greying mane of hair covers his head and face as he looks back and forth. When his eyes come to rest on the face of his old friend, the look of confusion turns to one of anger.
Trent:Leave before I shoot again.
He goes to slam the door, but Scott puts his hand up to stop it.
Scott:You don’t want to ignore me this time.
Trent lets out a low growl from behind his unkempt beard, but lets go of the door.
Trent:What the hell do you want?
Scott:It’s not about me. It’s about you. I found someone that wants to give you a shot.
Trent gives him a look of disbelief, before leaning against the door jam, and fishing a cigarette out from his matted nest of hair. He slides the filter into his mouth, and lights the end with a cheap, plastic lighter. Taking a deep drag, Trent exhales a plume of grey smoke toward Scott, who seems unphased.
Trent:So what? Some mercenary shit? Or do you have some rival dealer you need taken out? You know the feds are still watching me.
Scott:I’m legit now. I manage talent...and I’m talking about wrestling again.
The cigarette hangs from Trent’s mouth, already forgotten.
Trent:Fuck you.
Scott:I’m serious Tr-
Trent:So am I, Hellboy. Are you fucking kidding me? You don’t talk to me in four years, and suddenly you just walk up to my door like nothing happened? On top of that, you’re going to tell me you’re here to get me to wrestle on the piss ant, high school gym, beer show circuit.
Scott:I’m not talking about some indy shit show! I’m talking about Alpha Pro Wrestling.
Trent stops, taking another drag, and blowing the smoke out violently.
Trent:God dammit…
He steps inside, and motions for Scott to do the same. The interior of the trailer seems almost a portal forty years back in time. Wood paneling covers every wall, and the floor is lined with an almost nauseating brown and green shag carpet. Empty cigarette packs and bullet casings litter what little counter space is available.
Scott:Good lord, Trent. You live like this?
Trent:Sorry to offend your big city sensibilities, Hellboy, but not all of us can park our asses on Madison Avenue and pay an illegal immigrant to clean our shit. I wasn’t expecting company. Haven’t had any in almost a year now.
Scott:Shooting at anyone who knocks tends to keep people away.
Trent:I was hoping. Tell me about Alpha Pro before I toss you back out there.
Scott:They want an old hand. Someone who’s been around to draw in some interest.
Trent:An aging nostalgia act.
Scott pinches the bridge of his nose, and lets out a long sigh.
Scott:Yeah...basically that is what they want, but that’s not what I am offering you. What I’m offering you is a chance to take that attitude, and stick it back down their throats. What I’m offering you is the chance to show the entire wrestling world that a man they all thought was a broken down old mess is still one of the most explosive talents in the industry. I want you to be the fire that gets out of control and makes them regret ever lighting you back up.
Trent flops down on a creaky metal futon, and brushes the greying hair from his eyes.
Trent:I can’t. I got a good life here.
Scott lets out an indignant laugh.
Scott:What in the name of Nick Bockwinkel are you talking about?! You have a rusted out trailer in the middle of the land that God forgot, and a dead end bouncer job in some swamp. You have nothing. I am offering you one last shot at everything you have ever wanted.
Trent:You don’t have the faintest fucking clue what I want. You never did. It was always about money with you. I could give a fuck about your bottom line.
Scott:It doesn’t matter what you’re about, moron! This isn’t about personal politics, it’s about the one thing we both believe in. It’s about the survival of the fittest. It’s about setting you loose on professional wrestling, and weeding out the useless, entitled, lazy wannabes that don’t belong… of course maybe I was wrong about you. Maybe you’ve become one of the lazy complacent slobs we used to despise. Maybe you dove head first into the comfort of your private life, and stopped caring about achieving anything. I mean look at you. It looks like you haven’t showered or shaved since the last time I saw you. I know you don’t want my advice, but here it is. Find a reason to get it together, or you’re going to die in this tin box, and nobody is going to find you for years.
Scott tosses a manilla envelope down on the futon next to Trent, followed by a small, black cell phone.
Scott:Call me when you’re ready to be Trent Page again. That guy had passion. They want your first match to be with Masuda Jubei. He’s no joke. Be ready.
Scott makes his way out of the trailer, with Trent offering nothing to stop him. The disheveled man sits in his ramshackle home, staring at the envelope placed before him. He listens to Scott’s car turn around, and drive away, growing quieter and quieter until it disappears entirely. Once the silence returns, he rises to his feet, and makes his way to the closet sized bathroom that sits right next to the kitchen.
____ _ _ _ __ __ ___
Later that night, Trent sits behind the wheel of his rusted out old Camaro, making his way through the winding, unlit back roads. He looks in the rear view mirror, still slightly jarred by the re-emergence of his sharp chiseled jawline from behind his former beard. His hair is now also shaved close, almost in a flat top style. He gets a look at the bags under his eyes, and moves them back to the road.
A dim light in the distance signals the approach of the Dew Drop Inn. The unkempt wooden building is surrounded by brown grass, and cars that don’t look like they should be able to run. He comes to a stop between two rusty trucks, and climbs out of his car. Making his way up the wooden stairs, he ignores the two drunk idiots fighting on the lawn. Pushing into the bar, the familiar scent of cigarette smoke and stale whiskey hits Trent’s nose just before the sound of old, crackling country music greets him from the worn out jukebox.
He moves across the shifting floor boards, dodging a few wobbling drunks, before making it to the tiny employee room in the back. He clocks in quickly, trying not to make eye contact with the cooks in the corner, who are having a very quick, very impassioned discussion in spanish. Making his way to the floor, it takes no time at all before the sound of a wooden table being demolished in the far corner of the room alerts him to a fight breaking out. He looks to one of his much closer colleagues, an overweight, balding man who seems more interested in watching the fight than stopping it. Trent rolls his eyes, and shoves his way through the crowd, having a difficult time getting to the intoxicated combatants. When he does, he grabs them each by the collar, and starts dragging them toward the door.
Trent:You don’t come into my bar and break shit. You fuckin’ hicks can take this outside.
He throws open the door, and tosses both men out onto the lawn. Neither seems to notice, as their fight continues right where it left off. Trent then spins around, glaring a hole in the coworker who failed to act.
Trent:And what the fuck is wrong with you? Huh, Dell? Too busy being a stupid fat fuck to do your god damn job?!
Dell:Hey, fuck you, city boy. That wasn’t nothin’ but a little scuffle.
Trent steps forward with vigor and slaps him in the right ear, before doing the same to the left. The man shouts, and collapses, holding his head as he lays on the ground.
Trent:Piece of advice, if your dumb ass can still hear it. Get your shit together. You’re a fuckin’ loser, and you’re going to stay that way..
Trent walks toward the door, and steps out into the muggy night air. Whatever fights were happening are gone now. Replaced only by the sound of surrounding wildlife, and the dim hum of music coming from the building behind him. Trent sits in the driver’s seat of his vehicle for a few minutes, before turning on the dome light, casting an eerie shadow over his face. He then pulls out the phone Scott gave him, and sets it on the dashboard, before hitting record.
Trent:Alright, listen up, maggots, ‘cause we’re diving right in, and I’m only gonna say this once. I’m not gonna do the typical “I’m a legend, bow before me, blah blah blah” bullshit you’ve all heard before. I’m not worried about whether or not you know me, I don’t give one shit about the past. What I care about is the future… mine and yours. As of this moment, they seem intertwined. I’m coming to APW with one thing on my mind: destroying everyone you love and tearing down everything you believe in.
Trent rubs his chin, savoring the odd sensation of being able to touch the skin on his face. He cracks his neck, then his knuckles, before continuing.
Trent:Let me tell you a story. A story about me. You see, I’ve been sitting at home, out of the game for almost four years. In that time I have watched the people in this country, and fans of this sport in particular, devolve into lazy, mindless, entitled wastes of flesh and bone. You have watched the world crumble around you, and what have you done about it? Delved deeper into your vices. Numbed your already inadequate brains with drugs and liquor, instead of standing up and facing the challenges of your day.
Each and every one of you has had the opportunity to stand up and do something that matters, and what have you done? Every last one of you sat there with your thumb up your ass, doing absolutely nothing. You watched as real men, men with ambition and talent did things you were too lazy and frightened to even try. Now I’m here to show you what it’s like when none of that exists anymore. When you can no longer live vicariously through these men. When you have no choice but to look in the mirror and see the abject failure that you’ve become. When there are no more distractions…
Trent’s eyes have gone bloodshot, and the veins in his neck have begun to bulge. His stare grows more intense and his speech becomes slower, and more deliberate, but not any louder.
Trent:See, I’m not here to prove anything to you brain dead humanoids. I’m not here to win. I’m not here to make anyone feel good. I’m here only to destroy. I’m not interested in your tournaments, your titles, or your win/loss records. I don’t give a shit if you chant my name, or throw garbage at me. What I want most is to grab your world by the throat, and squeeze until it stops struggling. I have no interest in being your king. In standing atop the pile of shit you’ve called a kingdom for so long. My only joy will come in walking away from it as it crumbles.
Trent closes his eyes, and takes a deep breath. His bubbling rage seems to fade, as he comes back to his speech with renewed poise.
Trent:I suppose this is the part where I should say something about Jubei. Talk about how I hate him too...well I don’t. Don’t get me wrong, he’s scum, but at least with people like him, you know where you stand. Jubei is all about Jubei. No gray areas, no questions. He doesn’t pretend to be some fuckin’ hero. He’s just here to get his and get out...really is a shame for him that he’s about to run head first into me. It’s really nothing personal, Masuda San, but I have no choice but to destroy you.
I wish my first victim could have been someone else, one of their paper heroes, but regardless, you must now serve as an example. In order to properly articulate my point, I’m going to have to put your head on a fuckin’ pike. I’m going to have to Jackson Pollock the canvas with your blood, and show everyone what happens when you run across a human molotov cocktail with nothing to lose. This isn’t about you. It’s not even about me. It’s about the angel of death descending on professional wrestling, and not leaving until the smug, complacent scum of the world have been left with absolutely nothing.
Trent finally gives in, and pulls a cigarette from the visor of the car, and slips the filter between his lips. With a flick of his wrist, he produces a flame, and turns the end a glowing orange. Taking a deep drag, he exhales with a deep sigh.
Trent:I have one goal. You don’t have to take me seriously now. That’s fine. Watch what I do to Masuda Jubei. Watch the symphony of blood and carnage I create, watch the destruction I bring, and know that I’m here to spare no hostage. Only death follows in my wake, no mercy. Only your pain sustains me. The only thing that motivates me is the mental image of your world in ruins, and a new one rising from its ashes. Violent? Sure. Over the top? Perhaps, but I’m not here for your comfort. I’m here for your head. Sleep well, APW fans. Your nightmare begins Monday.
Trent turns the key in the ignition, and brings the car to a whining start, before shutting off the camera app, and taking off down the long, dirt road.
