Once the sacred cathedrals of greasy hash and greasier eggs, truck stops were grimy joints where surly waitresses took your order of shit on a shingle while gruff cooks kept the flattop fryer running all day and all night; meanwhile, out back, a bulky concrete cowboy is popping ephedrine while making fast friends with a spun lot lizard who needs $20 bucks and needs it fast, man.
Yes, these mighty outlets of diesel fuel and cheap grub that dotted the mythical highways and mystical byways across this stolen land of America have mostly disappeared, replaced with a scathingly corporate scene that is pretty much just one Subway sandwich shop after another, all as uniformed and soulless as their $5 meatball marinara footlongs.