“Good, good. And I assume you’ve gone over the videos and materials I’ve sent you. You’ll have about thirty minutes to practice speaking this run, but future runs won’t always be so accommodating, so don’t get used to it.”
“95 bottles of beer on the wall, 99 bottles of beer. Take one down, pass it around, 96 bottles of beer on the wall!” Treble whisper-sang, focusing on driving.
Marcelle was leaning out the window, looking out for any possible police cars.
“94 bottles of beer on the wall— 99 bottles of beer- take one down, bottle around, 99 beer bottles— no, wait, fuck—“
”You’re at 93.” Marcelle says, still peeking out the window.
“right. 93 bottles of beer on the wall, 99– 93 bottles of beer. Take one down, pass it around, NINETY-TWO bottles of beer on the wall.” Treble paused. “Herb, are we stopping by the convenience store where we usually go to get snacks?”
Herb looked up from their papers. “Dunno if we have time, kid. First of all, you shouldn’t eat and drive. Secondly, we’re using that extra hour to prepare Wilbur for the art show, remember?”
“but what if we stopped for like— ten minutes. Just to get everyone some drinks and snacks. You guys can eat in the car and I’ll eat at the art show. It’s so boring there, anyway.” Treble said.
Marcelle ducked back into the car. “Yeah, why not? We’ll still have an hour if were quick— it’s all backroads after this point so Treble can drive as fast as she wants to make up any lost time. And I could go for a snack. And a stretch break.”
“Ooh, are you going to eat the cashier??” Treble sounded weirdly excited by the prospect.
Marcelle sighed. “No, Treble, I meant like trail mix or something.” She sat back in her chair, muttering the last part. “..I have standards.”
Herb shrugged. “Fine. What the hell. Marcelle, you’ll go with Wilbur to get the snacks and drinks.”
Marcelle sent Wilbur a needle-toothed smile. “Great!”
“Al’s going with you.” Herb said.
“Goddammit.”
“hey, if they’re all going, I want to go!” Treble said. “I need to make sure you’re getting the correct flavor of CapriSun.”
“Alright, everyone’s going. I’ll stay and watch the car. Al, give me your gun. Make sure it’s loaded, god knows I can’t do it myself.”
Al wordlessly slipped an ancient-looking pistol from his hoodie pocket and reached across the van (across Wilbur) to hand it to them.
“Thanks.” Herb slipped the gun under their leg for safekeeping. “Is the safety on?”
“Doesn’t have a safety.”
“Cool. Wilbur, what’re you thinking of getting at the store? Just so y’all can go in and come out quickly.”
(Virgin Marcelle: loses her shit when Treble starts swerving on a highway. Chad* Herb: sits on a loaded gun without batting an eye.)
(*its funny because it’s ironic. Herb’s aroace ass is determined to die a virgin)
“Uhhh, yeah. Practiced a bunch.”
Wilbur says with a very unconvincing smile, twirling a white strand of hair around his finger. It has not practiced on bit. He's sat in the van, made burgers, and talked to her dad so he doesn't think Wilbur has killed himself again. She can wing it!
The revived man looks confusedly at Treble, watching her repeatedly make mistakes on a simple, repetitive song. He groans quietly, the singing sounding like Tommy and Tubbo the rare times they went on road trips with the rest of Wilbur's family.
It gives Al a pleading look, gesturing vaguely to Treble. But her attention is recaptured when the mention visiting the convenience store, and listens to the conversation. She furrows his eyebrows when Treble gets oddly excited for Marcelle to eat someone, and looks to Herb and Al, to see if this is well... Normal.
She shrinks back in his seat and tries to get as far away from Marcelle as possible at the grin, which is very difficult for a 6'8 man in a van. She slumps back in it's seat with a sigh of relief when Al is told to come along, giving a thankful side glance to Herb.
“Thank Prime...”
Wilbur mumbles, looking back to Marcelle to hope she isn't doing... mantis things, he supposes.
“Where...”
It trails off, looking at the exchange of the gun. She looks to Al to possibly get any other insight of what's in his pockets, but gets nothing.