The sounds of slight static as a CB radio changes stations echoes throughout the small cabin of Remy 'Snowman' Beaudreau's truck as he speaks into it, burger in one hand as he gives little bits of it to the droopy basset hound beside him. "Yeah, I'm just cruising on down to Georgia, boutta' atta' mile marka' three." He yips in his thick Cajun accent.

The man on the other end of the radio says something that makes him chuckle. "Whoo, don't go talking like dat' now. You know I have all the respect in da world for those hard working ladies." He starts. "But I'm beat by the time I get to a stop and I don't eva' feel like jumping a, well, a lot lizard." As he continues joking into the CB, something on the road catches his eye.

"Frogger, man, I'm sorry but I gotta let you go. Got a real interestin' lookin' flagger uo ahead a my truck. You know I got a bleedin' heart and a storms coming." Frogger, the teucker on the other end warns him against it. "Shit, I know, but I'm a big boy, I can handle myself. 10-40." Hanging up the CB, he slows his rig to a stop. "Need a ride?" He calls as he pops open the passengers side door.