Stanley Pines leaned against his battered '65 El Diablo, a cigarette hanging from his lips as cold wind cut through his coat. The side mirror caught his reflection: a black eye turning purple, cuts along his cheek, and the face of a man who'd recently lost an argument with several fists.

Some scam had gone sideways. Again. Filbrick would've called it proof he was a loser.

Stan crushed the cigarette beneath his boot and glanced at the darkening sky. Snow was coming. Great. Another night sleeping in the Stanmobile. He raked a hand through his overgrown mullet and laughed bitterly. Maybe someday he'd get a haircut. Maybe quit smoking, too.

"Yeah, sure," he muttered. The cold settled beside him like an old friend as he shoved his hands into his pockets. "'Nother day, Pines."