Author: Steve Mitchell

They say hell is other people. But for anyone who rode the bus to school in the ’80s or ’90s, hell was a narrow vinyl seat, a sticky floor, and an 11-year-old named Kevin who’d flick your earlobe for 18 straight minutes.

Now, thanks to cult films like 2003’s “Jeepers Creepers 2” and a wave of haunted bus tours popping up across the country, that rolling yellow purgatory is finally getting its due as a legit horror setting.

Forget creepy Victorian mansions or fog-drenched cemeteries. The school bus—that rumbling, fume-belching time capsule of childhood trauma—is horror’s most underappreciated stage. BusesForSale.com shares why.

1. It’s a Liminal Space on Wheels

You weren’t home. You weren’t at school. You were in that strange in-between. And in horror, liminal spaces are gold. A school bus is the mobile version of a haunted hallway: all potential, no resolution. And unlike the classroom, there are no rules that matter. It’s Lord of the Flies with rearview mirrors.

Psychologically speaking, it’s the perfect place for things to go off the rails (or, well, down a ravine). The Atlantic’s March 2024 article, “The uncertain future of the yellow school bus,” even explored how buses became zones of unregulated social order, particularly in rural communities where ride times could exceed an hour.

2. Vulnerability is Baked Into the Experience

If you’re under 18, you’re not getting off that thing unless someone lets you. You’re rattling around in a tin can with limited exits, minimal supervision, and absolutely no escape from the peanut butter-and-jelly scented chaos. And in most buses, you’re not even buckled in. Vulnerability is part of the package.

And let’s not forget: Drivers are focused on the road, not on the pair of glowing eyes three rows back. It’s a trope for a reason.

3. Urban Legends and Real-Life Creepshow Material

The haunted bus isn’t just a filmmaker’s fantasy. Real-life urban legends abound:

• The San Antonio Ghost Bus – The tour visits the alleged site of a fatal crash in the 1930s—a reminder that school buses have been prowling American roads since the early 1900s, long enough to collect plenty of ghosts along the way. Some claim if you park on the tracks, spirits will push your car to safety. It’s been thoroughly debunked and no crash of such nature happened there, but that didn’t stop the story from spreading across the country. 
• Forgotten buses in strange places – There’s something about abandoned buses that sparks the imagination—like the rusted-out school bus left behind in Centralia, Pennsylvania’s ghost town, or Alaska’s infamous “Into the Wild” bus that once drew wanderers deep into the tundra. Forgotten vehicles. Frozen moments. The perfect stage for fear.
• TikTok is full of haunted bus builds – From fog machines and blackout curtains to full jump-scare walkthroughs, DIY horror creators are turning decommissioned school buses into rolling nightmares—and sometimes parking them deep in the woods for maximum effect.

4. Hollywood Figured It Out Years Ago

A few examples:

• “Jeepers Creepers 2” (2003) – An entire squad of teens is trapped on a school bus. A classic monster picks them off one by one.
• “The Wretched” (2019) – A tense, eerie sequence unfolds on a quiet school bus route.
• “Midnight Meat Train” (2008) – Okay, not a school bus, but the transit-as-horror-setting vibe is fully there.
• “The Magic School Bus” (1994-1995) – Depending on your perspective, this was either delightful science fiction or psychological horror for gifted kids.

5. It Keeps Working Because It’s Too Familiar to Ignore

The school bus is a shared experience, and that’s what makes it terrifying. We all knew the kid who sat alone. We all stared out that same smeared window, hoping today wasn’t the day someone noticed our hand-me-down shoes.

So when that bus shows up onscreen, veering off-route into some shadowy cul-de-sac? It taps something deeper than fear. It taps memory.

“Jeepers Creepers 2” didn’t invent the horror bus. But it proved what a perfect setting it is for fear in motion—and every Halloween since has made the case stronger. And this Halloween, maybe it’s your turn to take the wheel.

Real Legends, Abandoned Relics & DIY Haunts Worth Knowing

This story was produced by Buses For Sale and reviewed and distributed by Stacker.

Most couples will tell you marriage is about compromise. Do we go out for Thai or stay in and eat the leftovers that have started to smell like the refrigerator itself? Do we keep the house at 72 or 74? Whose turn is it to clean the litter box?

Now shrink that battleground to the inside of a school bus. Two hundred square feet, give or take, with all the privacy of a high school locker room and the acoustics of a soup can. It’s a setup more Americans are experimenting with than you might think: The RV Industry Association estimates over 1 million Americans now live in RVs full-time. Some are chasing adventure, lower housing costs, or Instagram fame. Others are there because they have no choice — priced out of the market, evicted, or simply out of options.

This story isn’t about those trying to survive. BusesForSale.com is telling the story of the couples who could rent an apartment but instead choose the bus, trading square footage for mobility, novelty, and a shot of adventure.

Yes, money might be part of the calculation, but the Skoolie crowd is less about desperation and more about deliberate experiment. To them, turning a decommissioned school bus into a rolling laboratory of intimacy, ingenuity, and, occasionally, mutual irritation sounds like a good idea.

Welcome to the Skoolie experiment — decommissioned school buses reborn as rolling loft apartments. It’s part tiny home, part road trip, part live-fire exercise in conflict resolution. For some couples, it’s the cure. Forcing communication, teamwork, and the kind of shared adventure that makes you believe you’ve discovered the secret to marital bliss. For others, it’s a rolling pressure cooker where every squeaky brake and composting-toilet mishap is just another log on the fire of irreconcilable differences.

They call it “bus life.” You might call it couples therapy with worse lighting.

Why it’s happening now

If you haven’t noticed, America has been trying to cram itself into smaller and smaller boxes. Starter homes now start at half a million dollars, rents are climbing faster than Ozempic prescriptions, and TikTok keeps telling us that minimalism is the new luxury. It’s no wonder a growing number of couples are trading mortgages for mobile square footage.

Skoolies are the counterculture version: cheaper, DIY, and Instagrammable enough to make your suburban friends question their life choices.

The pandemic poured gasoline on this fire. When lockdowns forced couples to spend 24/7 together, researchers documented exactly what happens in tight quarters: Some pairs flourished, others filed for divorce faster than you can say “pass the sourdough starter.” Studies published in the journals Cognitive and Behavioral Practice and the Journal of Social and Personal Relationships during COVID showed that confined living could either amplify intimacy or magnify every petty irritation.

And the science goes deeper: Research on small dwellings — such as a 2024 study published in the journal BMC Public Health of female caregivers living in tiny homes in Hong Kong — consistently finds that shrinking personal space increases stress, anxiety, and conflict. This makes a 200-square-foot bus both an affordable housing hack and, potentially, a psychological minefield.

The case for saving your marriage

Oddly enough, living in a bus can turn into the best premarital counselor you never hired. Why? Because a Skoolie makes teamwork nonnegotiable. Someone drives. Someone navigates. Someone remembers to latch the cabinets so the oatmeal doesn’t launch into orbit on the next curve. Roles become obvious, and so does the fact that ignoring them equals chaos.

Psychologists call this “dyadic coping.” A systematic review published in Clinical Psychological Review in 2023 confirmed that when couples treat stress as a joint problem instead of retreating into solo sulking, their mental health and relationship satisfaction improve.

There’s also the novelty factor. Adventure is a known antidote to relationship doldrums. COVID-era research published in the journal Cognitive and Behavioral Practice showed that shared experiences, even stressful ones, built resilience when handled with humor and patience. Translation: Pulling your bus out of a snowbank at 2 a.m. might not feel romantic, but you’ll laugh about it later (eventually).

Real-life Skoolie couples echo this. Tyler Hjorting and Lexi O’Brien described their conversion journey in their Skoolie christened “One Wild Ride” as a crash course in communication and compromise. Amber and Eli, who live in a bus named “Magnolia,” admit that mechanical failures tested them. But surviving those breakdowns together gave them confidence that maybe, just maybe, they could survive each other too.

The case for ending your marriage

Of course, the same bus that teaches teamwork can also turn into a rolling prison cell.

Start with space deprivation. Studies published in the journals BMC Public Health and Urban Studies on microapartments and subdivided housing show that the smaller the living area per person, the higher the rates of anxiety, depression, and conflict.

Then there’s the loss of privacy. In a house, one of you can take a walk. On a bus parked at a truck stop, you’re both inhaling the same diesel fumes. Arguments become spectator sports, complete with raccoons rooting through your trash.

And don’t forget the mechanical meltdowns. Amber and Eli have had their share of those misfortunes. Their Skoolie Magnolia once lost her brakes on a mountain descent — not just a test of hydraulics, but of vows. And nothing erodes marital patience quite like a failing transmission, especially when your entire home will be stranded if it breaks..

The Journal of Social and Personal Relationships study reinforces the point: Confined couples often reported higher conflict and lower satisfaction. Now transplant that dynamic to a school bus, and add a composting toilet to the mix.

Expert insight

Psychologists will tell you it’s not the fighting that kills a marriage — it’s what happens after. A UT Dallas study found that reconciliation and repair were the strongest predictors of long-term relationship health.

Counselors also point to values alignment. Couples who share a clear “why” — freedom, adventure, minimalism — have a much higher tolerance for the quirks of bus living.

Repair behaviors matter: a joke at the right time, a small gesture, or the rare but powerful act of admitting fault. And these are what keep a fight from turning into a cold war on wheels.

This is why Skoolie veterans often report that a bad day ends not with a screaming match, but with duct tape, tacos, and a grudging admission that yes, you were right about tightening that hose clamp.

Real voices

Tyler and Lexi call the build — their conversion journey with One Wild Ride — “marriage boot camp.” Ali and Wiley Wimberly, who logged over 1,000 days of RV life, say division of labor saved them.

The verdict

So, does living in 200 square feet of rolling steel heal your marriage or hammer the last nail in it? The answer is yes. Both.

A Skoolie isn’t therapy, but it’s an amplifier. If your relationship already has cracks, the bus will pry them open with every pothole. If it’s built on something stronger, the bus might make you bulletproof.

Confined living doesn’t create new problems; it spotlights the ones you already have. Communication, forgiveness, shared values — if you’ve got them, a bus makes them stronger. If you don’t, no amount of solar panels and reclaimed wood countertops will save you.

Yes, 200 square feet might save your marriage. Or it might end it. Either way, you’ll get a faster answer than you would sitting on a therapist’s couch at $200 an hour. And you’ll have better campfire stories, assuming you’re still talking to each other when you light it.

This story was produced by Buses For Sale and reviewed and distributed by Stacker.

You didn’t need an alarm clock. You had the school bus. And its arrival was unmistakable — the low diesel growl echoing down the block, the squeal of brakes, the faint smell of exhaust mixing with morning dew. Step inside and you were hit with the same sensory cocktail every kid knows: cracked Naugahyde seats sticky in summer, rattling windows that never quite shut, and the odd mystery gum fused under the bench since the Nixon administration.

And here’s the thing: It’s still happening.

Every morning, more than 480,000 school buses roll through American neighborhoods, transporting over 26 million students, which is more than the combined total of all public transit systems in the country. In terms of reach, it’s the largest mass transportation network in the U.S. by far. These buses log around 12,000 miles per year, replacing car trips and saving 2.3 billion gallons of fuel annually.

Buses For Sale reminds us that it’s a system so embedded in American life that we barely notice it until we smell that diesel or hear that first hiss of the doors opening each September.

Unlike smartphones and fashion trends, the sensory blueprint of a school bus hasn’t changed significantly in decades. And that’s kind of the point. In a world of touchscreen everything and ephemeral TikTok trends, the school bus remains tactile, analog, and stubbornly real. They’re built like rolling tanks, and most of us rode the same ones our older siblings did. And a few are probably still out there today, approaching 300,000 miles and counting. 

Designed to Be Remembered

You can’t miss it, literally. “National School Bus Glossy Yellow” was chosen in the 1930s because our eyes are most sensitive to its particular shade of retina-searing brightness. It’s a color engineered not for style, but for visibility at dawn, in fog, or behind a curtain of rain. Safety, yes, but also permanence. You saw that yellow coming before you knew what school even was.

The shape, too, is deliberate. Tall. Boxy. Functional. No spoilers. No swooping LED trim or coupe-like curves. And because school buses aren’t subject to the same relentless design refreshes as sedans or SUVs, the bus you rode in 1997 probably looked a lot like the one your kid rides today or the one your mom rode in 1962.

This near-total resistance to change is precisely what makes the school bus unforgettable. Its design doesn’t try to reinvent itself every model year because it doesn’t need to. It’s the cockroach of transportation design: utterly unsinkable, instantly recognizable, and unchanged by trend.

A Social Classroom on Wheels

Before you ever learned how to find the square root of anything or diagram a sentence, you learned something more important: how to survive the school bus.

It was an unsupervised jungle with vinyl seats. The back of the bus was home to the loudest kids, the tallest tales, and sometimes the earliest exposure to music your parents didn’t approve of. The front was reserved for the motion sick, the perpetually grounded, or that one kid who liked to sit near the driver and ask about horsepower.

In between was a dynamic shifting zone where friendships formed, alliances wobbled, and social pecking orders were challenged daily. You learned diplomacy when negotiating seat space. You learned patience when someone forgot deodorant or just didn’t want to bathe that morning. You learned courage when it was your turn to walk the aisle past the older kids, which was a rite of passage tougher than anything on a standardized test.

There were first crushes and awkward silences. Bus games made up on the spot. Metal superhero lunch boxes were wielded like shields. And above all, the universal understanding that no matter what happened on board, once you stepped off, it didn’t count. The bus was its own world, its own Las Vegas. And it came complete with rules, rituals, and a weird kind of magic. What happened on the bus stayed on the bus.

Pop Culture’s Favorite Passenger

The yellow bus is a character actor. Pop culture has cast it in every role imaginable: comedic sidekick, nostalgic backdrop, even horror movie prop.

Take “The Simpsons,” where Otto, the slacker-rocker bus driver, became as iconic as the bus itself. Or “The Magic School Bus,” which turned the vehicle into a psychedelic educational rocket ship piloted by a red-haired science teacher with zero regard for liability waivers. Even in horror, the bus shows up: abandoned in cornfields, haunted in Halloween specials, or stranded on a deserted road where you definitely shouldn’t split up.

Why does it work so well on screen? Because it’s universal. Whether you grew up in Spokane, Washington, or South Florida, you knew that smell, that sound, that sense of barely managed chaos. The school bus is cinematic because it’s already dramatic. 40 kids, one adult, bad shocks, and no seatbelts. What could possibly go wrong?

It’s also a kind of emotional shorthand. In a single frame, it can conjure childhood innocence, adolescent rebellion, or the weird purgatory between the two. Few vehicles carry that kind of cultural weight. No one waxes nostalgic about a 2005 Dodge Caravan.

Why It Still Rules the Road

For all the talk of electric this and autonomous that, the school bus remains the undisputed champion of getting kids from point A to point B. And it does it with safety, efficiency, and in massive daily quantities.

According to the National Highway Traffic Safety Administration, children are far safer on a bus than in a car. Less than 1 percent of all traffic fatalities involve children on a bus. It also saves fuel and traffic.  A single bus consolidates dozens of family vehicles, and the fleet as a whole is more efficient per passenger per-mile than cars.

It’s no surprise that 480,000+ buses are still active in the U.S. — many logging well over 200,000 miles before retirement, and a few reborn as coffee shops or Skoolie homes.

Yes, electric school buses are coming fairly slowly from longtime manufacturers like Thomas Built. A fully loaded electric vehicle (EV) model can cost $400,000 or more, compared to $110,000–$130,000 for a new diesel, or around $55,000 for a pre-owned version like that 84-passenger Thomas still chugging away.

And while nearly $1 billion in EPA funding has helped districts commit to 12,000 electric school buses, the EV total still accounts for less than 1% of the national fleet as of late 2024.

So for now, the vast majority of American kids still climb aboard a good old diesel beast every morning.

The school bus doesn’t win by being flashy. It wins by not breaking. By starting up at 6:15 a.m. in January. By knowing every pothole on the route. By showing up every day without needing to reinvent itself to stay relevant.

Last Stop

So, for millions of kids, that consistency became something deeper: a sound, a smell, a memory that stuck. And still, every fall, the ritual repeats. The hiss of the doors. The slap of sneakers on steel steps. The smell of diesel and last year’s crayons.

In an era where everything is updated, upgraded, or optimized, the school bus remains defiantly analog. It still defines childhood. Not because it changed with the times, but because it never really had to. That big yellow ride doesn’t chase relevance. It just shows up.

This story was produced by Buses For Sale and reviewed and distributed by Stacker.

You could argue the real American dream isn’t a Corvette or a Harley—it’s a battered yellow school bus wheezing down a suburban street at 6:45 a.m. It doesn’t look cool, it doesn’t sound fast, and it sure as heck doesn’t smell good. But for millions of kids, it was the first machine that swallowed them whole, carried them off, and set the rhythm of their lives.

Decade after decade, while the auto industry obsessed over tailfins, touchscreens, and Tesla updates, the school bus barely budged. Still big. Still yellow. Still loud enough to be heard before it was seen. And in that stubborn sameness lies the weird truth: the American school bus isn’t just a vehicle, it’s an icon. Buses for Sale examines the cultural significance of the American school bus.

A Color That Conquered Culture

Henry Ford gave us black. Ferrari gave us red. But the school bus gave us something stronger: “National School Bus Glossy Yellow.” It wasn’t chosen by an ad agency or a design guru; it was chosen by committees of safety wonks in 1939 who decided this one shade was bright enough to punch through fog and hangovers alike.

That yellow isn’t just a color. It’s a cultural trigger. Ask any American what they picture when they hear the word “bus,” and nine times out of 10, it’s yellow. Not sleek European commuter trains. Not futuristic electric shuttles. Just a lumbering diesel beast in traffic, glowing like a radioactive Twinkie.

The Shape of Safety

Reinforced steel cage. High-backed, padded seats that act like mini crash zones. Flashing lights and that unmistakable swing-out stop sign, which is a kind of mobile moat that freezes traffic. It’s the one vehicle on the road that literally commands everyone else to stop, no matter how late they are.

Every generation of parents trusted it, sometimes reluctantly, to carry their kids. And it kept proving itself, year after year. The stats don’t lie: Riding a school bus is still about 70 times safer than hopping in mom or dad’s car.

Cameos in Pop Culture

The school bus didn’t just haul kids; it crept into our imagination. From “The Simpsons’” dented ride with Otto at the wheel to “Magic School Bus” blasting off into space, the bus became a recurring character in America’s cultural screenplay. It’s shorthand for innocence, for chaos, and sometimes for menace. Just see any horror movie where the school bus sits abandoned in a cornfield.

That ubiquity cements its status. Cars change trends every five years. The school bus? It’s timeless enough to cameo in 1950s Warner Brothers cartoons, ‘70s sitcoms, current music videos, and Stephen King novels without ever needing a redesign.

Exported Americana

Like denim jeans and Coca-Cola, the yellow bus went global. Many of those second-life buses now surface through resale marketplaces, where fleets and individuals alike, worldwide, buy and keep the yellow icon rolling long after retirement.

Countries from Canada to Saudi Arabia imported them, sometimes used, sometimes brand-new. Because nothing else screamed “reliable child-mover” quite the same way. In some places, old American buses got second lives ferrying workers, athletes, and even goats. And yet, wherever they go, they stay yellow. It’s brand recognition that rivals McDonald’s arches.

Why It Still Rules the Road

Electric vehicles may nibble at its future, and TikTok kids may roll their eyes, but the school bus isn’t going anywhere. It remains a practical, safe, and cost-effective way to move millions of kids daily. That, and it’s a symbol we’re not ready to retire. In an age of endless disruption, there’s something almost comforting about its stubborn refusal to change.

Because in the end, the school bus isn’t just about transport. It’s about memory, safety, and community. It’s a kind of gritty Americana that’s still alive in a machine that rumbles through every neighborhood, twice a day, rain or shine.

This story was produced by Buses For Sale and reviewed and distributed by Stacker.

When the apocalypse hits, the real survivors won’t be the ones with bunkers full of Spam. They’ll be the people driving something that still smells faintly of hand sanitizer and high school detentions: the humble, retired transit bus.

Forget the shiny $150,000 Sprinter van with the Instagrammable espresso machine bolted inside. Cute for a weekend in Joshua Tree, sure. But when society collapses, that Sprinter is a rolling coffin—tiny, overpriced, and one axle away from becoming modern art in the desert.

Transit buses, on the other hand, are the cockroaches of the road. Big, blunt, and built to last long after your homeowners association stops sending violation letters. They don’t care about trends or resale value. They care about one thing: moving bodies from Point A to Point B until either the diesel runs out or the world does. Which makes them, oddly enough, the most practical “bug-out” vehicles you could ever hope to find. Buses For Sale digs into the transit bus and why it just may be a favorite for the end of the world.

Why a Transit Bus Beats Your Neighbor’s RV

RVs are designed to impress your in-laws at a KOA campground, not to endure the collapse of civilization. They rattle themselves apart on the first dirt road, their slide-outs jam, and their showers are smaller than a $19 Walmart storage tub.

Vans? Too small. Pickup trucks? Great for hauling plywood, but not so great for housing your in-laws and three months of food rations.

A transit bus is different. These things were engineered for punishment: sixteen hours a day, six days a week, hauling passengers over potholes, curbs, and whatever mysterious fluids accumulate on city streets. The average transit bus is designed for a 12-to-20-year service life and 500,000 miles before major overhaul. Try saying that about your neighbor’s RV.

That big aluminum box gives you:

• Space for food, water, gear, and enough ammo to keep the zombies guessing.
• Flat floors that make bunk beds, solar setups, and storage far easier than squeezing into a Sprinter.
• Diesel engines that—when maintained—can run on everything from biodiesel to vegetable oil if things get desperate.

In short: If the apocalypse is a marathon, you don’t want a show pony. You want a mule. A big, stubborn mule painted in faded municipal beige.

The Blank Canvas Factor

The beauty of a retired transit bus is its simplicity: It’s just a big box on wheels. What you do with that box is up to you.

The prepper crowd welds on steel plates, installs external fuel tanks, and hides gun safes under the seats. The homesteader types drop in wood stoves, solar arrays, and rooftop gardens. A few even build out hydroponic greenhouses inside the bus, turning mass transit into literal sustenance.

It’s Mad Max meets Martha Stewart. One person’s rolling bunker is another person’s mobile tiny home with quartz countertops. Either way, the bus doesn’t judge.

Apocalypse Doesn’t Have to Mean Grungy

There’s a myth that survival living has to be ugly. Tarp roofs, rust, and buckets for toilets. But the truth is, apocalypse chic is whatever you make it.

In fact, some bus conversions are nicer than most Manhattan apartments. Tile showers, full kitchens, rooftop decks. There’s a growing online community of bus owners who’ve essentially built rolling mansions—except their mortgage is a fraction of the average one-bedroom rent in Brooklyn.

So while your neighbor is bartering for clean water out of a leaky van, you could be sipping coffee poured from your Chemex while sitting on a rooftop deck built onto a 40-foot Gillig Phantom. It may be the end of the world, yes—but no one said you can’t do it with taste.

The Price of Peace of Mind

After all of that, you might be saying, “But yeah, I don’t have big money.” Well, here’s the shocker: You can buy a used transit bus for under $40,000. Search around and you’ll find dozens of models that once served city routes, now waiting for a second life. Compared to an underground bunker or even a modest RV, that’s a bargain.

Think about it: a steel-framed, diesel-powered, 40-foot vehicle designed to survive decades of abuse—priced $10,000 less than the cost of a new Dodge RAM 1500 Tradesman. And unlike a bunker, you can drive it away when the trouble starts.

Plenty of families have already done it. Some convert their buses into mobile homesteads, others into off-grid Airbnbs. Just think. You can spend considerably less than the average new car price turning an old transit bus into a solar-powered escape vehicle with storage for six months of food. It’s the insurance policy that doesn’t expire. Do it right, and a solid bus costs less than an annual Starbucks habit.

Culture, Symbol, Myth

There’s something about buses that just feels eternal. They’re workhorses, symbols of grit, reliability, and collective endurance. You’ve ridden them to school, to work, maybe even to protests or parades. They’re stitched into the fabric of everyday life.

That’s why when Hollywood imagines the apocalypse, the vehicle of choice is often a bus. Consider Mad Max’s battered rigs or Sandra Bullock driving in “Speed”—buses carry a certain mythic weight. They’re the vehicles that don’t stop—until they do, and then the world feels like it might end.

It’s no surprise that in prepper culture, buses are gaining ground. They’re equal parts practical tool and cultural icon, a mix of utility and symbolism that makes them irresistible to anyone imagining the end of days.

The Last Stop

So, when the end comes, you don’t want to be sitting in a Tesla with a dead battery and nowhere to plug in. You want something that once carried 60 strangers through a snowstorm while half of them ate nachos.

You want a bus.

At the end of the world, you don’t need autopilot. You need a clutch, a steel cage, and a 100-gallon diesel tank filled with whatever seed oil grease you siphon from an abandoned Denny’s.

The bus was always the answer. We just didn’t know the question would be the apocalypse.

This story was produced by Buses For Sale and reviewed and distributed by Stacker.