You set a course that takes you through North Dakota, down through Montana and out into Wyoming by way of I-90. You’re thinking of making your journey into a complete circle, chewing off your long fingernails and spitting them into the defrost vent, waiting for something to happen.
“Anything,” you think to yourself in cycles of boredom, “Nothing out here has been even remotely…well no, remote is exactly what everything-”
WHAM! Something hits you from behind – something big by your split-second estimate. Your car flies right off the edge of the road but you bring it to a stop after the inertia takes it a ways away.
Once you get out, and after making an assessment of the damage done to your car’s backside, you notice a very tarnished looking semi pulled over to the side of the road. Since no one steps out from the truck, you walk over yourself and knock on the door to the driver’s side. The door opens but the driver hasn’t moved from his seat – and you see why. Grisly tubes and wires are running from the back of the driver’s head and into his seat like noodles squeezing out of a noodle-maker. His swarthy features make you wonder if he has Native American blood in him.
His shriveled mouth spews out with a tincture of drool, “Hey, I’m sorry ‘bout that. I kin drive ya out to the nearis city if ya don’t have triple A.”
Go to page 171.
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