J.A and S.K. had just finished their liquid road trip by being escorted out of the rural, rustic bar, known as the PIT, on Sunday at 2AM. As entertaining as they were, the tavern owner/bartender was happy to see the sloshed slobs go. They started their adventure the day before at noon, on Saturday, as they loaded up a 1968 Pontiac Bonneville with sleeping bags and $63 in cash between the 2 of them. The plans were well thought out as they decided to hit all the bars on the right side of the road between their apartment and their destination, which was unknown at the time. This was a bimonthly summer event that extended until deer hunting season of November. They then shut down the ritual until the next year because Motel Bonneville got too cold to sleep in. Their birthright state of Wisconsin gave them access to a large number of watering holes because, many decades ago, hardworking Huns built barns and bars that fulfilled their reason for living. By 5PM, the pair had hit 4 bars and chalked up 72 miles on the Pontiac Motor Home. They decided dinner needed to be served, so they stopped at a liquor store and grabbed 2-12 packs and a handful of Slim Jims. While driving, they were constantly rubber necking both sides of the highway for cool shit that needed to be stolen. Returning on Sunday night and going to work Monday morning, that evening was reserved for opening the trunk and seeing what “gifts” were in there. The pair could piece together about 70% of the history of the objects, but after that, the rest of the shit was just a mystery. After stumbling around in the PIT’s parking lot and throwing out 23 empty beer cans, it was decided to find a wayside or park, and call it a night. The drunks hit upon a small county park and locating a campsite, the Pontiac Airstream docked into the site by pushing the picnic table into the woods. Splitting the last beer, the duo passed out and unknowingly became a saloon for the 289 mosquitoes that found their motherlode.

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