Chuck Boggs has been standing on this highway overpass for God knows how long.

He’s been told to meet his employer in a town whose name ends in “berry,” but he can’t quite remember which. On route to one of the three berries his car broke down, leaving him stranded in the middle of nowhere. A cell-service dead zone, he couldn’t check his horribly declining stock holdings even if he wanted to. The weather is god awful, the density of trees on either side of the road turning this particular stretch of highway into an actual wind-tunnel. Boggs is notably unhappy and the wind has totally fucked his hair, which he spent like forty-five minutes shaping into a perfect faux hawk. Everything just totally completely sucks and – to add insult to injury – it looks like it's about to rain. 

Boggs’ meeting, which his employer stressed as being incredibly important, is in thirty-minutes and not a single car has passed the entire time he’s been stranded here. So he stands atop the overpass, staring into the vanishing point of the road, thinking about how on earth he’s gonna pick himself up after losing his job, financially and also who on earth would come all the way out here to put up all of this graffiti. 

If there’s anything Boggs has to be thankful for at this very moment, it's that he’s at least wearing his best winter jacket.