Travis stares, concerned.

“Let’s go to lunch!” the bug man announces, loudly disturbing the quiet and dusty reverie of the room.

Standing, Travis stretches hard, reaching out, elbows cracking and ending in a “nnngMwaah.” He scratches his stomach beneath his t-shirt which says: In Case of Emergency: Panic! “Okay.”

Suddenly, the record makes a horrendous scratching sound and the mariachi band is silenced. Both Travis and the bug man look.

“Sounds like your record done skipped, Chief,” the bug man offers.

“No. He doesn’t have a record player…” Travis starts to investigate.

“Lets go!” the bug man shouts, marching out the front door into the sun.

Travis follows, shuts the door and locks it before realizing he has no shoes on. Shrugging, he turns away from the door only to confront a gigantic, lavender pick-up truck. “What’d’ya think?” He bangs on the door in admiration and the mirror falls off. Squatting down quickly the bug man picks up the mirror and holds it behind his back. He looks around and says, “You know what a Hemi is?”

Travis, still standing in front of the door, briefly wonders what he is doing but then replies, “I think I saw a commercial about them… or something.”

The bug man laughs hysterically and slaps his leg. “That’s a good one, Chief.”