THE SKULL IS HERE

real nuance perverts when it depends

Horses exist in zoos, you're pretty sure. That's where they, more or less, belong. It's not like there's a stable next to the auto shop or something. Are there… wild horses? In… nature? Presumably, at some point, there must have been. Probably not, anymore. Oh, the race tracks, though. Duh. They probably have stables. Couldn't lose twenty thousand wen a day if there weren't losing horses to bet on. Horses don't belong at the gas station, but there's one here anyways. Its rider is wearing a leather jacket studded with old military medals; what looks like a torso-sized cogwheel, slung over her back like a shield; a broadsword, underneath the cog-shield; and a pair of holo-screen shades. She dismounts. She slides her card through the machine. The pumps start pumping. The horse sticks out its neck, dips its snout, and begins drinking gasoline directly from the nozzle. The rider holds the spout up to the horse's mouth, at a bit of an awkward angle. She meets your eyes, and shrugs. You know how it is. You don't know how it is. Later, you will see her on the news, clotheslining a police officer on horseback at seventy miles per hour. You will understand even less, and also, so much more.

Passed the White Pharaoh on the freeway

Official ominous hat?