"Its no big deal. Comin' dis way, like I said." What sort of asshole would he have been to leave someone stranded, alone, twenty miles from anything? Common in this day and age, but Dusty just couldn't picture the young man as a threat. Especially to someone like him. Switching the tires hadn't been that difficult either. It just required the right tools, something that the young man obviously did not have. The way he handled the bike struck Dusty that it was newer to him. Not something he knew a great deal about, making it temporary at best if he didn't learn to maintain it. Hopefully he learned a few things from the experience. Dusty ran him back through the process and threw a few of the extra tires into the back of the truck, as well as the old rim. Parts he should save for the future.<br/><br/>"Least we won't be no competition to each o'dha." He grinned at the vast differences in their chosen rides, then they got to work trying to pull the boat out of the metal heap.<br/><br/>"More!" Dusty encouraged. "No need to be gentle!" The pedal wasn't sensitive and neither was the old diesel engine. It took a heavy foot to get the old junker moving at all. It wasn't a sports car, and he shouted his directions in a mix of affirming noises and Louisiana French. Dusty used the rebar to wedge the sedan in place against the trash above the boat, so it wouldn't fall in as suddenly should it come loose. When it finally did, the tires caught, the power cycled fully, and the truck launched forward jerkily. A bent, jagged rail caught Dusty in the forearm as the pontoon boat was pulled forward. It barely registered initially and Dusty roared with enthusiasm.<br/><br/>"<i>Mais la! </i>Das it!" The old boat had raked a deep gouge in the earth before the young man had gotten the truck stopped again. Dusty shook the blood from his arm, as if it were a mild annoyance.<br/><br/>"You reach back dere, hand me dat bottle of Jack Daniel," he requested from his back seat, sitting beside the shotgun. It didn't cross his mind that the young man might try to shoot him, or if he even knew how to shoot. He reached for the bottle when it was extended, half full of dark liquor. Celebration and antiseptic, all in one. He opened it, took a swallow, then poured a little of it down the gash in his arm, counting on the blood to clot on its own. He passed the bottle back to the stranger in offering. He earned a little celebration himself, helping him get his motor. Now all Dusty needed to do was remove it from the boat and load it up.