Stanley spent the first night away from home, crying himself to sleep in the backseat of his car. Not that he'd ever admit this to anyone, under torture. He woke up feeling worse: tired, hungry, and sore . There were ways he could make money, treasure hunting for one, he was sure there must pirate gold just waiting for him under the sandy surface of the beach. He could turn tricks, like before, but he wouldn't because he'd be strike it rich, he knew he would never have to do that again. He stretched as much as he could, got out the safety razor from his bag and the soap, lathered, shaved, applied deodorant and exited out the car creakily. Down the street he'd spotted a diner, a greasy chrome thing called Rita's.

Standing outside the diner was a tall skinny punk, about his age, with black messed up hair, and a unibrow, he wore a black studded leather jacket, a white band t-shirt, jeans and boots. He was shaking like a junkie. As Stan walked by The guy called out: "H-hey hey, you! Ya got a light?"

"Yeah."

Stan dug his zippo out of his pocket and flicked it. The Skinny guy got his shaking hands to stay still enough to hold a cig near his mouth and held it up for Stan to light it.

"T-t-thanks, I'm comin' down from some real-real crazy stuff.." Said the skinny punk and inhaled.

"Don't mention it," Stan muttered as he walked by into the diner.

He was ravenously hungry as he sat down at a booth. When the waitress came over he ordered: pancakes, a Denver omelet, a side of bacon, hash and home fries. He knew he couldn't pay for this feast, and wasn't planning on it. He was pretty nervous about it and despite the diner's aircon was starting to sweat as he fidgeted with some sugar packets. He'd never been able to pull off a dine and dash really, he always got caught. The plates hit the table and the skinny punk from outside took a seat across from him and helped himself to some of the bacon.

"Hey, back off that's my bacon!" Stan shouted.

The skinny punk shrugged and mumbled: "hey, chill out, it's just bacon, ya know. Besides, I'll pay for the meal."

"I can pay for my own meal," Stan grumbled.

"No, you can't you were planning on a dine and dash." Said the Skinny punk, who then shoveled some home fries into his mouth.

"Fine, you're right, but leave some for me." Stan said. "What's yer name anyways?"

The skinny punk looked up from his food. "Rick Sanchez."

"I'm Stanley Pines and thanks," Stan offering his hand, Rick just stared at it and went back to eating bacon. Eventually Stan let his hand fall.

The waitress came over to refresh his water. "Anything I can do for you two?" She asked she was non-plussed that Rick had joined him and was scarfing the bacon.

"Yeah, get a plate for this guy," Stan said, pointing at Rick.

"Also could ya give us some extra syrup?" Rick added.

"Sure thing boys," said the waitress.

Stan ate the waitress returned with a plate, silverware and a pitcher of pancake syrup.

"Gracias," Rick said taking it. He then took two pancakes half the omelet, most of the hash and most of the home fries.

"Hey, ya gonna leave any more me?" Stan asked.

"I'm paying for it," Rick replied. He spilled a little syrup on the pancake and devoured it.

Stan ate his food with a scowl. "Why'd you get the syrup if you aren't using it?"

"Cuz I like fluffy discs with a little syrup, I don't like soggy ones." Rick said.

"Yeah me too," Stan said and his expression began to lighten.

After the pancake was devoured Rick dumped the rest of the syrup on his plate and devoured the rest of greasy breakfast, swimming in a greasy sweet soup.

They ate in relative silence. When it was over and the waitress brought over the check, Rick took it with a smile. He raised his unibrow as he examined it. Then took a roll of money from the pocket of his leather jacket's pocket. Stan's eyes went wide, but he said nothing. Rick peeled off a twenty and paid for it, then peeled off a few more dollars for a tip. He was still gaping at wad of cash. Then Rick caught his eye, there was knowing in that glance, an understanding. Rick had gotten the cash the same way Stan got his money: hustling. Stan didn't consider what did real prostitution, he never let them fuck his ass, also he was 60% sure he, Stanley Pines, was actually straight.

"See ya round Stan," Rick said.

"Uh, sure." Stan said.

He was pretty sure he wasn't going to see that skinny punk anymore.

Because today he'd strike it rich, treasure hunting. He got his trusty metal detector and took to the beach. Spent the whole day under the searing summer heat and got well… no gold. Just a lot of other junk. He didn't want to spend another night sleeping in the Stanleymobile. So back to hitting the docks to turn some tricks. He managed to find a few willing perverts among the crusty old sailors that hung around. The money he got from giving them hand jobs and also picking a few pockets wasn't much. But it did give him a room at the blue moon a one story fleabag motel nearby.

The blue moon was low slung concrete building: white with blue trim,an L shape that bordered a parking lot. A blue flickering neon sign able the parking lot, advertised the name of the motel and that there were vacancies. The clerk at the desk was an old blowzy woman who sighed when Stan handed her money. She took a brass key off the rack in back of the desk and handed it to him, the blue key fob said: 14 Stan made his way down the parking lot, squinting in the orange light cast by the street lights at the numbered doors. Fourteen was the last on far corner, right next to twelve, whoever numbered these rooms was superstitious. The curtained window of twelve was alight and Stan could hear music coming through. He shrugged, turned the key in the lock and opened the door to his own room. In the dim light from outside, he found the light switch and turned it on. Then wished he hadn't.

The wallpaper was was a bright blue with a pattern of yellow stars and moons. The carpet was yellow and stained. The bedspread on the double bed matched, there was tv facing the bed next to that was a particle board desk with a yellow chair on the desk rested a faux gold lamp. There was painting above the bed of a cheap print of you guessed it: starry night. He could hear the music coming from number 12 cleared now: loudly hammering through the thin walls. Also underneath it some kind of rhythmic whirr and bang. Maybe the other tenant would get bored of his music in a little while.

There was a closet in the back of motel near the bathroom, the hangers of course where the kind you couldn't steal, solid plastic rings. The bathroom…was in harvest gold and neon blue. Somewhere they'd gotten a half-moon shaped mirror, with blue trim.

The walls were painted harvest gold, the combination tub shower was harvest gold as well. The shower curtain was blue. He stripped off his clothes, turned on the shower and slipped under the water. The sound of the running water drowned out the noise from number 12, for now. The hot water running over his tired body felt welcome and comforting. He would have stayed in there longer, if it wasn't for the silverfish that scampered across the wall, startling him out of his dream with a yelp of surprise. He was out of there and drying himself off with motel towels quicker than anything.

If anything the music had gotten louder, the walls of his hotel room where shaking. Stan tired desperately to get to sleep, hiding under the blankets, pillows over his head. Nothing worked, as desperation turned to frustration, and then anger. He'd get that fucker to turn off his shitty music if was the last thing he did. Stan was clad only his boxers, as he ventured out into the balmy June night. He knocked on the door of number 12, nothing. He growled and knocked louder. No response. He pounded on the door with the edge of his closed fist as loudly as he could. The door opened, and standing in the doorway was Rick Sanchez: clad in a undershirt and boxers, cigarette dangling from his lips, scowl on his face.

"W-W-WWWHAT!? What the fuck man, don't knock so loud?!" Rick said.

"Turn your music down, some of us are tryin' to sleep!" Stan said.

"How about I say no and you fuck off," Rick replied.

"Turn your music down or I'll make you!" Stan shouted.

Rick took a drag on his cigarette, and tossed it away. "Ha, I'd like to see you try!"

Stan balled his fist: "Oh you're asking for it!"

"Ooooh! I'm so fucking scared, I'm quaking in my boots." Rick said with a smirk.

That's when Stan's right hook hit him squarely in the chest, Stan lifted his fist prepared to hit him again. Rick countered with a low sweeping kick that knocked Stan on his a moment Stan was back on his feet, He charged Rick, head lowered and must have punched the skinny freak twice in the gut. Rick bit and scratched, his nails were sharp as needles. Stan howled in pain when the bastard Rick, had Stan's ear in his teeth. Stan pulled his head back and rubbed his ear. That's when Rick began to laugh like madman, then with a flying leap he tackled Stan hard they tumbled onto the pavement. Stan got in a few kicks and punches when Rick flipped him and put him a headlock. Stan was on his knees he could feel the other man's hot breath in his ear. Blood or sweat trickled down his forehead. His left arm was free and punched the back of the skinny asshole's knee. He did this about three times and was released. He got to his feet quickly they squared off in the dim orange light of the parking lot. Rick was bloody, but grinning from ear to ear. Stan's blood was up he could feel his heart pound in his chest, he felt more alive than he had in months.

He stared at his opponent. "You gonna quit?"

"No," Rick said. "T-t-this is fun isn't it?"

"You get off on getting the shit kicked out of you?" Stan asked fist up ready for Rick's next move.

"HAHA, do you?" Rick asked.

They lunged: some the punches they threw landed some were dodged. It did feel good, Stan and to admit. But was Rick getting out of this other than a split lip and a black eye. There was something about that cocky smirk, that know-it-all attitude and tousled hair that sparked him, like gasoline touching a match. In the heat of it, They were back in Rick's room. it was like being inside a robot's heart. There were devices and machines, all going, lights blinking, and tanks with odd occupants, above it all Patti Smith singing about Land, like a hammer in Stan's head. Rick was looking up at him from the floor, getting to his feet.

"Whoa." Stan exclaimed.

"Ya see, Stan I'm working on something bigger than you and bigger then me." Rick said. "So ya know, If I need my music LOUD it helps me work."

Rick was now holding a bottle of cheap whiskey, he took a belt from the bottle and offered it to Stan. Stan took the bottle and drank, it burned going down and Stan choked, sputtered and coughed.

"Pussy," Rick said with a laugh.

"I'll show you!" Stan said the whiskey warming him and whispering to him darkly…

He strode forward ready to knock some teeth from that fucking mouth. When Rick closed the distance, kissing Stan. A declaration of war. A violent bloody kiss, with teeth and tongue, Rick tasted like cigarettes booze and vomit Stan was no homo, but fuck that was hot and now he raging hard on. He pushed Rick away.

"WHAT WAS THAT FOR?!" Stan shouted.

"Whatcha gonna do, huh?" Rick asked teasingly.

Stan grinned and pushed him onto the unmade bed.

"This." Stan remarked, and he turned the skinnier man over deftly. It wasn't like he hadn't fucked a guy before but usually he needed more encouragement, also usually he was getting paid for it.

He pulled down Rick's boxers, and then did away with own underwear. He grabbed Rick by the hips. He hesitated for a moment, shouldn't they have lube or something.

"We gonna fuck?" Rick asked. "Or will you puss out on this too?"'

That's when he thrust into the tight, hot pucker between the other man's legs. It was met with a grunt of pleasure. It felt amazing, he was riding the bastard, hard and furiously, all the anger, the sadness, was melting away into nothing. As he pumped away inside of Rick. It was over faster than, either of them would have liked. The feeling built to quickly and Stan came with torrent of cursing. He laid down on the bed next to the unimpressed Rick.

"Hahahaa… That was…"

"..It?"

"Well, It's been a while…"

"Yeah, I need to get off, Stan."

"Give me a few minutes. We'll do it again."

"No."

And that's when he felt Rick's thin fingers close around his cock and he laughed, that had only been round one.