It generally starts with the Wrong Gas Station. All things considered, as I called attention to in my survey of a past Wrong Gas Station film, most service stations are perfect, all around lit spots, where you can purchase fuel as well as basic supplies, garments, electronic gadgets, Jeff Foxworthy CDs and a full line of Harley stock. With sickening apprehension films, notwithstanding, the main service station on the planet is situated on a destroy street in a godforsaken backwater. It is staffed by a deteriorate who rearranges out in his coveralls and goes through a disturbing repertory of scratchings, spittings, chewings, twitchings and leerings, while mindfully moving bodily fluid all over his throat.
The neat and tidy legends of the motion picture, be they a family on an excursion, love birds, undergrads or hikers, all have one thing in like manner. They think everything this man lets them know, particularly when he proposes they take a left on the unpaved street for an easy route.