Sand.

Sands.

Sands is in sand. Sand is in Sands. There’s lots, and lots… of sand. Of Sands. More Sands here than he’d like, really.

The less said about the sand, the better.

Sands. Sand. The puns go on forever.

The sand goes on forever ( Read more... )

No day’s a good day to give up smoking when you live in a bar. Especially when you can’t leave. Especially when you don’t even want to give it up anyhow.

So Sands has strolled outside for a breath of fresh air, leant up against the wall and glaring at nothing in particular.

The van grinds to a halt in the motel’s car park, and Sands is out of it almost before it’s stopped moving, staggering as his feet hit the ground. The sandy, dusty, still considerably deserty ground.

His scowl deepens and, rubbing at his sore wrists, he heads towards the motel. Whether anyone follows him or not is of no concern.