He’s driving a snow plow and he’s got an ounce of weed in his coat pocket.

So far, this is turning out to be an average winter morning for Creed Bratton.

His neighbor has a sleeping disorder, so whenever he peeks through the guy’s living room window and sees him snoozing on that beat up Lazyboy recliner, he sneaks around to the back of the house and hotwires the truck. It isn’t an industrial size truck like the kind that plows the highway (oh, what he wouldn’t give to give one of those babies a whirl), but it does an alright job. He drives around Scranton, humming songs to himself and plowing random driveways.

This morning is bitter cold and he can still feel the cold of the steering wheel through his gloves. He decides to hum his way through the Rolling Stones discography even though Mick Jagger is overrated. You can’t be a rock star if you’re trying to be a rock star and Mick was always trying hard to be a rock star. Creed’s never liked the guy much - that’s why he doesn’t keep in touch.

It’s easy to fall off the radar if you really want to. You put down your guitar and settle into office work in your hometown, and suddenly nobody cares who you used to be. And it’s good that nobody cares because if somebody did they might figure out that you should actually be in jail, and Creed Bratton doesn’t see himself as a jailbird.

First of all, he doesn’t have that many friends that have access to ovens, so who’s going to bake him a cake with a file inside?

He thinks he’d do great in jail and wouldn’t mind the luxuries, but he knows he’d miss chucking stuff down the quarry with his buddies and taking these relaxing drives.

Creed Bratton is a man who enjoys freedom.

While he’s plowing a driveway, he crushes the mailbox. He rolls down the window to inspect the damage, then decides to drop the bag of marijuana on the lawn as an apology.

After this, he drives away, ready to do more good deeds.