papa was a rodeo

Home was anywhere with diesel gas, love was a trucker's hand

Misty Mountain, Carolina was never gonna feel like home to Jacoby Wise. Far as he could figure, it was pretty much fated to turn out that way. His earliest memories didn’t paint Misty Mountain in such a good light– the bone-chilling cold of a dark apartment without heat, the sloshing of green-tinted water in the bathtub, and the scratchy feeling of a throat that’d cried itself hoarse. Jacoby was left with his only inheritance on the kitchen counter: a moldy half-loaf of bread, a stained towel he’d been wearin’ as a swaddle, and a birth certificate declaring his name– both parents’ names conveniently scratched off it. He reckons they had somewhere real important to get off to. 

"Um... okay, weird question. Marshall's my buddy, which might be an unpopular opinion these days..." Jacoby shrugged, like he gave a fuck. He considered it for a moment before saying, "Lenny and Major are up there too, and-- August." The thought of 'enemies' made the space in between Jacoby's eyes ache, and he rolled his eyes, "Far as people I can't stand? Sweet William, Routledge probably."

"Back as... what?" Jacoby paused, shrugged it off. "He doesn't, so nevermind it."

"That's quite the conclusion, unless you mean....monsters as a metaphor for somethin'. I'm not the one who's going to join in on some mass hysteria situation, alright? Try again."

"The same shit that's been happening in this town for decades. Piss poor infrastructure, a crumbling education system, and well-meaning people turning their grief and anger into something it isn't."