A heavy rain fell from the dark Texas sky. The remnants of a hurricane that had passed through the Gulf and out into the wilds of the Mexican plains. Jim sat at the register fumbling through the latest issue of Hustler. He wasn't aroused in the least. His shift was coming to an end, and he needed the stimulation to ward off sleep. A truck pulled up and a long lean figure approahed in the darkness. Jim flipped a page. He never heard the shot and truth be told, never felt the impact on the shell as it decimated the left side of his head. The figure pushed pushed Jim's body out of the way with not a little disgust. He opened the register, withdrew the cash, and retreated into the darkness from which he came. As the Dude drove along he didn't give much thought to Jim. Jim was a means to an end. The same as the money in that register was a means to an end. What that end may be was undecided. He was a thief, sure, but so was Jim. Everyone is a thief when you get down to it. Jim's filling station was charging over three and a half dollars per gallon of regular unleaded gas. Is that not robbery? The Dude understood that price gauging doesn't technically exist. There is only what the market deems as a things worth. Still, Jim set the price and probably didn't understand that. In his mind he was just squeezing truckers for more money. Still, somewhere deep inside the Dude prayed that Jim had kissed his wife and kids goodbye when he left for work.