Wyoming Gas Stop, 100 miles from any literature

If you've ever cruised through Wyoming, you know there isn't much happening. Although I appreciate the isolation, it becomes a problem when the gas tank reads “E”.

Spotting an archaic gas pump, we take an impulsive swerve onto a dirt road. We arrive at a place with more character than our roadmate D-Hashish's filthy mustache. After offroading our way to the only pump, a man, the type of guy who's life is a story, shouts his mumbled local dialect at us. We deciphered the message, “there is a 6 gallon limit”. We filled up with whatever fuel we could get and took the opportunity to stretch and organize the endless amounts of shit in our car. This included the home gym Prendofile (roadmate) brought.

Racing 50 miles an hour, kicking up dirt, a beat up truck slides to a stop in front of the store. The blue door, which doesn't match the red body, swings open as cowboy boots kick out empty beer cans. Everyone in the vehicle is drinking a beer, and the people in the back are seated on a couch which had been miraculously fit into the truck. Simultaneously, we all realized the place merits a good point to stop and drink. Soon would we realize how right we were.

Upon entering the store we are greeted with a spotting scope mounted next to a cash register and a mural with hundreds of local prized hunting kills. The man behind the counter has a scar extending down through his glass eye and into the collar of his hunting camo. Then we observed that the store is actually a bar, that sells gas. This place was awesome! We wasted no time to saddle up and order some whiskey. At this point the bar / gas station is empty, but we were chattin' it up with the scar-face who walks with a stiff leg. D-Hashish was the first to get this guy to laugh and his mustache only multiplied this talent.

With a bud in our hands, less D-Hashish who is two feet away taking a shit in the bathroom, we inquire about open container laws, in which he replies that there are none. “This is the greatest place on earth!”, shouts D-Hashish on toilet, getting even the crippled bartender to crack a smile. The booze was flowing, and I think we were all in agreement. At that moment, it was the greatest place on earth. Wyoming didn't stop us from filled Solo cups or children's pony rides; these things had been going on. But now, we could be care free, and also conserve Solo cups.

As stated earlier, this place had character. The spotting scope mounted on the counter allowed them to hunt antelope from within the store. Hog hocks, pickled eggs, and other unappetizing preserved bar food sat in large jars above the bar. Amongst these, a leather cup sat next to similar jars packed with cash, one labled “Pig Roast” and the other “Shake A Day” Our new acquaintance, perhaps now our friend, explained the rules to the local bar game. If you are a drinking you have the opportunity to pay a dollar and roll five dice. A three of kind wins you a free beer, four of a kind for a 6 pack, 5 of a kind gets you half the pot, and five aces wins the whole pot. Any time someone wins half the pot the other half is put into the pig roast coffer. Apparently, the pig roast fund grows large enough to pay for many pigs