Falcon

About this location

A few stories people tell about this place

1. At nightfall, a delivery driver pulled up to Falcon, fumbling with his keys in the dimly lit parking lot. Suddenly, an old man emerged from the shadows, whispering something about ‘the last tank of gas for luck.’ The delivery driver shrugged and nodded, thinking it was just another local superstition. As he filled up the tank, the old man whispered one more thing—something about crossing fingers for good fortune. The next morning, everyone in town saw the same delivery van cruising around, its owner grinning widely, while the gas gauge stubbornly read empty. It turned out that the old man had been right: ever since then, the driver always got lucky whenever he remembered to cross his fingers before filling up at Falcon.

2. At dusk, a gas station attendant noticed an odd humming sound coming from behind the pumps. Curious, he walked over and peered through the shadows—only to see a line of tiny lights dancing across the asphalt. Was it just his imagination, or did those neon dots seem to be spelling something? As he watched more intently, the lights formed the word ‘HELLO’. Startled, he called out, but no one answered. Turned out, it was just a delivery driver adjusting his headlights while texting. Moral of the story: don’t trust neon dots after dark.

3. At dawn, a jogger passing Falcon noticed something strange: every morning, the air smelled like freshly brewed coffee just as he reached the pumps. One day, an old neighbor stopped by and asked if they could get some ‘fuel’ for their lawnmower too. The attendant smiled and poured a gallon of coffee into an empty can. The next morning, everyone in town woke up to the sound of a lawn mower humming and the smell of strong espresso wafting through the streets.

4. At midnight, a late-night jogger passed Falcon and wondered aloud: ‘Why does the gas pump always seem to be whispering my name?’ Curious, they approached the pump closer—only for it to start speaking in hushed tones again as if reading from an old road atlas. Turns out, just another night at Falcon: where gas pumps gossip about neighbors’ commutes.