They say these crossroads are where the devil comes to pray. People avoid it in the daylight, sayin' that the sun is just a bit dimmer there and the air smells faintly of brimstone. At night... well... people don't talk about what goes on durin' the night.

Now, I ain't a superstitious man. Stepped on enough cracks to break my momma's back a thousand times over as a kid, but she can still whip my ass as a grown man. Superstitious, no... but desperate... that's a whole 'notha story. I may be shabby-lookin' but used to be a pretty damn good musician if I do say so myself. Had a promisin' career until the jealous husband of a devote fan shot me in the hand. Hard to do anything with it, nonetheless play a tune anymore but the music still calls me. It haunts my ears whenever it gets quiet in the middle of the night. That's why I'm out here in the darkness of midnight, led by the moonlight.

They say these crossroads are where the devil comes to pray, and I intend to bargain with him.
--Joel Joestar, 1932


「August 22, 22 P.I.」

Regardless of how much you knew of your father, during this journey to attend the reading of his will, you had become quickly become acquainted with the closest friend of the Joestar family: traveling difficulties. Scheduling delays, mechanical issues, heavy turbulence, emergency landings, flat tires, blown radiators, car-jackings, train robberies; you had suffered it all. It was as if Hermes himself had been slighted and was taking it out on you, but if there had been any silver lining to this, it was that it had proven effective in weeding out a lot of the chaff. Seventy-four of you had begun this trip and now less than twenty remained.

If anyone were to ask you where you all currently were, the best you would probably come up with was "Somewhere in Texas". To be fair, this place wasn't much a town, or anything really. Just a crossroads, a bus stop, and a suspiciously modern-looking truck stop called the Junction Stop whose rustic looking sign clashed fiercely against the overall aesthetic. This would be your home for the next hour while you all waited for the bus to come. The possibilities for entertainment were boundless, such as reading the nutritional label of that local brand of gummy worms, playing the one solitary arcade machine, True Bark Hunting 17 -named because of the year, not the number of games in the series (apparently there were 36 in all if the amount of logos plastered on the side were any indication)-, or maybe wait for lone employee of the built-in sandwich shop to come back from her smoke break.

Aside from your eccentric family, there were only a handful of other people at the truck stop, two of which were a cashier and a local chit-chatting.

"Lot of folks have been passing through here lately..."
"Marge tells me it's related to Speedwagon. Her nephew used to work for them, you know. He says they're conducting an experiment out there..."
"That boy's a damn liar and you know it. It's probably just the company running around while they figure out who's replacing Joestar."

The next hour threatened to be a long one. Perhaps now would be a good time to get to know some of your step-siblings... or the ones left that had been stubborn enough to endure all of this with you. Either that or you could explore the truck-shop for the 16th time hoping for something new?