Death Never Accepts

“So this is my adversary,” said a voice from behind them.

The evil man crawled out of the bush to see who had spoken to him. She poked her head out and saw a man with dark brown skin wearing a gray suit along with a tall, round hat. It looked silly on him. She could see just barely that he had a long, gaunt face. He was very thin and had large ears. He had sad eyes and was quite tall. Even without the hat, he was tall.

“So I am an enemy of Abraham, am I?” asked the evil man.

“I am not the President, Raven,” said the brown skinned man. “I am Paul… and I know me saying my name has no affect on a Prince of the Vampires.”

“I am Raven’s Feather!” shouted her companion. “And I am no Prince, Paul. But I once killed a princess.”

Amber felt like thanking him for calling her a princess, but for some reason she knew differently. It was another victim of his.

“Nothing more than a butcher’s eldest daughter,” Paul said as he laughed.

It was no laughing matter to Raven’s Feather. He leaped horizontally through the air and sped along the ground towards Paul, intending to tackle him as he flew.

Paul made no move to defend himself. He just stood there. He even took off his hat and bowed just as Raven almost collided with him, but they didn’t.

But instead of crashing together, Raven landed on the ground behind him. He had nothing in his arms. Amber swore she hadn’t seen them come into contact. It was like Paul was some kind of ghost.

Raven cursed loudly.

Paul laughed. “I am for now not in your world or in your story, Vampire Prince.”  He smiled, putting his hat back on his head. He turned and kicked at Raven, but his foot didn’t make contact.

Raven flinched, causing Paul to laugh more this time.

Paul shook his head then seemed to think of something that made his face scowl again. “I should be damned for confronting you.”

“I will send you to the pits of hell, Paul!” shrieked Raven.

Frowning, Paul reached into his side-pocket of his coat and pulled something out which was attached to a watch chain. But it wasn’t a watch in his hand. It was a small silver dagger. He looked at it but made no move to stab or slash Raven with it. He wore another chain around his neck. Attached to it was an odd stone on a necklace.

Raven grabbed a rock and threw it at Paul. He cursed again.

Paul’s flesh wasn’t affected by the rock, but he dropped his dagger to the ground. It fell and landed on the ground, sticking up from its bladed tip. It was Paul’s turn to curse. He reached for it, but his hand passed through it.

“Clumsy all of a sudden, Paul?” asked a fat, short man who suddenly appeared at Paul’s side.

“God damn you, Kevin,” Paul said. “I told you to remain silent.”

Kevin knelt and grabbed at the dagger. His hand at first passed through the handle but on the second try his fingers grasped it. Kevin smiled at himself.

“You moron, Draxtin!” Paul yelled as he tried to slap Kevin in the back of his head. Kevin flinched from the blow, but Paul’s hand passed through his face.

Sensing his moment, Raven grabbed Kevin’s wrist, crushing it easily in his hand. Kevin dropped the dagger to the ground.

“You are on my list,” said Kevin as he held his broken wrist to his chest.

https://www.gofundme.com/need-a-newer-pc-for-my-ventures

Kyle was sitting serenly in the now-vacant booth. Vernon slid in across from him. He looked out the window and saw the lights of an ambulance parked in the parking lot. He looked back at Kyle inquiringly, not trusting himself to speak just now.

“I ripped out his liver and strangled him with it,” Kyle said proudly.

Vernon nodded.

“I’ll be having a side of liver with my steak, Vernon,” Kyle smiled.

“That is good, sir.” Vernon was sure this time Kyle wasn’t joking. He didn’t ask for an explanation this time.

After staring at each other for an unknown amount of time, Kyle began banging his fist on the table. “Where is my damn food!??!”

Most of the diners had lost their appetites after seeing what happened to Billy Bubba and the place had been closed to new arrivals since then as well.  Two male waiters came out carrying a large mound of meat. It was followed by two plates of sunny side up eggs, some home fried potatos, and several other dishes. The final course was one human liver with onions.

Vernon stared at the feast. “Sir,” he managed to say. “Steaks are normally served a few ounces at a time.” He pointed at the mound. “You don’t eat half the cow yourself.”

Kyle looked crestfallen at first. Then he nodded. “I’m sorry, Vernon. I haven’t eaten for my whole life and all this food looked too good on the menu.”

Vernon nodded, grateful he hadn’t said anything to offend Mr. Draxtin. At least not immediately offend him. “So what shall we eat first?”

Kyle looked at his silverware, still wrapped in a handkerchief. “I wasn’t given very good table manners, Vernon.”

Vernon smiled. “Very well, sir. I will demonstrate.” In earnest he instructed a slab of meat cut from the mound into the proper size. He smelled the meat. It seemed to be just shy of medium-cooked. Vernon then demonstrated how to cut his meat. He also named which piece of dining ware was what and explained what each was used for. It almost felt like a meal with his own family back home… people he hadn’t seen for an entire year.

The two men chowed down.  Kyle ate the liver by himself. Vernon obliged by not vomiting out any of his meal.

Section 1g(?): Hive Beginning Story

(maybe)

The player awakens in bed. There are dozens of other beds in the room. A message pops up on

the screen: “Good morning, my darling! I am your mother, your Hive Queen. You may call me

Heather.”

Other people have already awakened. One young girl speaks outloud: “Thank you, Heather.”

“Please do not speak out loud to me, young one.”

A woman enters the room from a doorway. She is wearing a yellow jumpsuit and has long green

hair. She walks to the young girl. The girl looks embarrassed. The woman says outloud “Do not

be ashamed, young one. I am your mother. Think what you wish me to hear and I shall respond.”

“You mean like praying?” comes the reply. The mind-voice is more timid than the one previous.

“There is no God or Goddess watching over us. At least not any more.”

The young girl cries. The Hive Mother hugs her.

“I know what it is you are thinking. Your mother shall be avenged, young one. But I am your new

mother.”

The woman stands, holding the young girl’s hand in her own.

“The Rayzene corporation is responsible for the deaths of those who died of the Medusa illness.”

“This is… strange. I seem to remember dying! But…”

The woman looks over at a man standing behind her. The Hive Mother doesn’t look pleased. “Do not upset the children.”

“I am sorry, but I have brought back as many of you as I could. I cannot bring back those whose bodies are gone or too decayed or who have been turned to stone by the Medusa illness.”

“Brought back, but why, Mother?”

“I needed an army. We have our allies, the Talon. We also have our enemies, the Vampeer and the Rayzene. I do not ask you to salute me, but we are at war.”

“War? And we have already died? You give us a war where we cannot die?”  The man holds his hands to his head. “What bliss is this?”

“You are here for the rapture long promised. A time of judgement but we judge our own souls. Those who find themselves worthy will fight. The cowards may remain here in the Hive, but be known as non-combatants.”

“Why, mother?”

The Hive Mother looks down at the girl standing next to her with pride. “Please do not forget your mother so easily, young one. I am Heather.”

“Momma Heather, I do not forget. I am proud of you and wish to look brave. My days of crying are probably over. I just wish I weren’t so young!”

“A child may have her uses even in this world of chaos, young one. What is your name?”

“It is Helen.” The girl smiles. “My middle name is Heather. Helen Heather Harrington.”

“Thank you, Helen for joining us. I wonder if I can get away with calling this section of the Hive ‘Troy’?”   

“Troy is my brother’s name. I hope he’s a Rayzene.”

“I stand corrected.”  The Hive Mother stands still for a few minutes as if in thought. “I do not seem to find amongst our group. But you should set aside sibling rivalries in the future. It was the first American Civil War that brought about the creation of many principles for the Rayzene group’s founders… it is unfortunate that they have not followed their ancestor’s lead well. But enough of that.” She claps her hands together. “Come, my children, we shall prepare for war.”  

“Is it safe? That thing looks like its radioactive.”

The metal limb the doctor was showing him indeed had a small canister in it that was glowing greenly. “Don’t worry, it is not. It is a special substance called ‘Nano’ which isn’t derivative of any isotopes you may have heard of.”

“Doctor, I know I’’m just a test subject from prison, but why isn’t there any artificial flesh covering it?” asked the the test subject. “In the joint, I don’t want to be the only dude with a metal leg.”

“You won’t be for long. Soon there will be inmates with metal arms and metal legs.” The doctor smiled proudly. “Maybe metal organs!”

The test subject didn’t see the point to this. “Making a scrap yard out of us?”

“This is not scrap!” The docotor composed himself. “I told you your term in prison will be shortened. You will do some rehab there and then be transfered out to a new facility where you will work for the Rayzene Corp as a free citizen. Relatively free that is.”

“So I’m to be a soldier?” He grimaced.

“No, sir. You will be help remotely piloting some robotic droid or something.” The doctor scratched his head. “I don’t know for sure but you won’t be directly on the battlefield I was told.”

“I guess I’m ready for the future, then.”

“Good, good. Nurse, put him under.” The patient was anesthetisized. He was then strapped down thoroughly to the metal table on which he lay, restraining his good arms and leg while leaving the stump which used to be his left leg free for implantation.

The doctor assesed the metal leg and looked over the patient’s still form for a moment. “Nurse, we need to amputate that.”

“Amputate WHAT, doctor?”

“This man has a working knee of his own and the leg terminates two inches below that,” says the doctor, pointing.

“So?”

“Don’t say, ‘so’ like that to me! Look at the artificial leg. It has a knee on it!”

The nurse looks concerned. “Doctor, surely the prosthetic can be modified?”

“Get the hell out of here! Someone bring me some nurses who follow orders! AND A SAW!” He shoves her towards the door where several people reach in and begin to debrief her. “I’m not an engineer for gosh sake! I was told to put a leg on a man and put a leg on a man is what I will do!”

Richard Smyth disappeared from the public eye shortly after the first debate. He had no running mate, as Kyle Draxtin did not; and before the second debate it was announced they would settle their differences and run together for office with Draxtin in the lead.

There wasn’t exactly a void and the disappearance of the older man wasn’t remarked about much in the Republic. Rumors about, if anything, Smyth’s poor health or “low constitution” surfaced. Some said “He had the Big C and went the Little Easy to treat it.” Whatever that meant.

Draxtin “humbly” accepted the Presidency uncontested. He may of had said the word once in a long drawn out speech of his superiority to other candidates. Despite the discrepancy, he was roundly applauded by all. Even those who in their heart of hearts who wished to oppose him applauded, in fact applauded the loudest. He was just that charismatic. He was bred that way, even.

Sitting in his boardroom for Rayzene, which doubled as his office, Draxtin sipped from glass of saline. He was on a liquid diet. Had been his whole life. Draxtin didn’t want to complicate his digestion, ruin his teeth with sweets, or put any absolute changes to his perfect physique. Kyle counted the bites individual members of his staff took as they ate their food. The whole affair disgusted him, but it was a necessary evil. You couldn’t expect men or women of the common class to take as good care of themselves as he did. Draxtin himself was a sole member of an aristocracy. Raised from young adulthood to be in charge. And before that? He could not remember babyhood or a childhood of any kind. They might have skipped that phase in his creation.

Uniquely chiseled as if from a rock, wearing a suit made of a cloth that would have torn at the flesh of lesser mortals like sandpaper, Kyle was lord over the land he surveyed.  He decided to get up out of his chair and pace around a bit. Several sallow lackeys turned in their chairs to watch him pass behind them. A few others remained facing their meals, hogging away. One exec was eating fried chicken and began to speak, but he swallowed his last morsel wrong and began to choke on it.

Kyle deftly lifted the man from his chair and applied the heimlich.  He did it with ease despite the fact the man was rather heavy set. “Don’t speak with your mouth full, Porkins. In fact, don’t speak again. You’re fired.”

Still coughing, Porkins tried several times to speak but couldn’t get the air needed to form the words he wanted to. He winced. Finally he said, “I think you busted a rib of mine, Mr. Draxtin.”

“Vamoose,” Kyle said, pushing the man against his further protests towards the door. Pained, Porkins shuffled on his way out the door.

“I don’t trust a man who can’t control his food. More so one who is controlled by it.,” Kyle joked. The others gave a cautious few laughs. Not a one of them dared to ask whether or not the boss ever did eat. It wasn’t the place for such questions. But many of them wondered. “Exit boardroom,” Kyle commanded. The room around him slowly evaporated before his eyes and he was once again seated, for real this time, in the back seat of his PrezCab. He looked around to get his bearings.

They were parked near a diner. Seated in the driver’s seat was his driver whom he called “Victor.” Draxtin had a great memory for names but hadn’t bothered asking his driver his actual name. Some people were of a low enough status that the President need not be familiar with them in that fashion. Kyle coughed loudly. A moment later the cabbie woke up.

“Saw ree, Mistah Draxtin,” said the man in a thick Jamaican accent. It amused him to hear the man speak in such away. “I must a haff dozed off.”

“Victor, good thing for you we are not late and I can easily find out where we are should you have gotten lost,” Draxtin said around a smile. The cabbie didn’t like that smile but didn’t say so.

“A mere five miles from Palookaville,” commented the driver. This time sounding rather as if he were from Brooklyn. Draxtin forgave the man for sleeping and for having forgotten which accent to speak with. Victor was a good, patient man. Hard to find those in a tough economy.

“Is my extra suit in the trunk as I instructed. You do know remember the trucker’s mistake, do you not?”

Victor paused for a moment, blinking. Draxtin smiled again, knowing the man was consulting some journal for a moment because he had forgotten. “Ah, 4,733.”

“Yes, a great number. I trust that we found a place for 4,734?” Draxtin asked.

Victor winced. “Combat duty, sir.”

Draxtin laughed. “Not for long, Victor. I hear he was KIA very soon after he reached his post.”

Victor was less than amused by the statement. “Shall we go, sir?”

“I broke Porkins’ rib and fired him,” Kyle said.

“What?” Victor shook his head for a moment. “Oh, you mean at the meeting, sir?”

“Damn fool choked on his chicken.” Kyle shook his head gravely.

“How unfortunate for him, sir.” Victor reached over to put the car in gear. Kyle tapped him lightly on the shoulder, stopping him. “You have something else to say, sir?”
“Yes,” Kyle pointed at the diner. “Do you think they have any steaks?”

Victor looked uneasily at the diner. As if he’d parked next to a graveyard where his own grave awaited him. “Why, sir?”

“I think I’ll have one,” Kyle replied. He looked shrewdly at the driver via the rearview mirror. “You aren’t religiously opposed to eating beef, aren’t you, Victor?”

“It’s early enough for steak and eggs, sir,” Victor said. He still looked nervous. “I didn’t think the price was reasonable for the meal so I just had toast and coffee, sir.”

Kyle patted Victor’s shoulder this time. “I have all the money in the world, friend.”

Victor started to take off his seat belt.

Kyle asked him a question that surprised him. The question was “what is an egg?”

Victor smiled this time, suppressing laughter. Kyle clucked his tongue at him, stopping the smile abruptly.

“What’s your name, Victor? Your birth name?”

“Vernon, Sir. Vernon Paul.” Victor had been admonished and it creeped him out more to hear this question. “Why do you ask, Sir?”

“Oh, nothing,” Kyle said. “You still haven’t told me what an egg is.. but I just suddenly wanted to know what name to put on your tombstone should you have a heart attack in that … Greasy Spoon.”

Vernon didn’t laugh. “Sir, an egg… well, the eggs people generally eat come from chickens. It is from what baby chickens are hatched from.”

“Does the baby chicken come out of it onto your plate?”

Vernon suppressed a grimace. “No, sir. It’s a hard white shell with a bit of white stuff and yellow in the middle. The yellow is yolk.”

“Ah, so it is an abortion?”

Vernon wasn’t sure what he meant by that. “Ah, yes, sir. In a manner of speaking.”

Kyle took his turn to blink and consult something. “Oh, should I ask for mine ‘sunny side up’?”

“Oh, that’s good, sir,” Vernon commented. “Ready when you are.”

Kyle took a couple minutes to release himself from a fairly complex array of wires attached to the harness that kept him situated in the car. “It would be nice to eat something as the natives do, Vernon.”

“Quite sure of it, Mr. Draxtin,” said Vernon. He waited until Kyle got out of the backseat before getting out of the driver’s seat himself.

The two men ambled to the diner. Vernon paused to look both ways before crossing between some rows of cars. Kyle asked him what the heck he was doing and Vernon explained why. “I pity the man or woman who runs over the President of our nation!”

Vernon didn’t laugh. He suddenly wondered why no security ever accompanied him and Draxtin on these long trips they made. As far as he knew, his was one of the few cars on the road which sitll had wheels and much more importantly was fueled by fossil fuels. He knew it was made a year before because that was when he started working for Mr. Draxtin. Just then it seemed fairly quaint that everyone else was required to drive electric cars of some kind while the Prez had his own rules he followed.

When they entered the diner, a bell rang over-head. Kyle looked at it suspiciously. Vernon stopped himself from explaining why it was there. He felt shaken by the “heart attack” comment. One didn’t take jokes from Mr. Draxtin lightly. When the hostess arrived, she looked up at Mr. Draxtin’s face and she did a double-take. She looked at Vernon quickly. Vernon held out two fingers and said “Two please.”

To her credit, the woman managed to speak. “If I knew you were the President’s friend I would of given you my phone number earlier when you asked!” She looked nervously around the diner. “Follow me, please.”

“Two of what, Vernon?” Kyle wanted to know. “Where is she taking us?”

“I told her how many guests were requesting seating together. And she wants to show us to an available booth, sir.”

Kyle glared around for a minute. “That lazy bastard over there is by himself in a booth!” He pointed. “And he has made a mess of the place!”

Vernon swallowed very hard. He suddenly wasn’t very hungry.

The hostess came back, wondering why they hadn’t followed her. “Something wrong, sir?”

Kyle walked right up to the messy person in question. “You! You took up a booth just to have coffee?”

The hostess gasped. “He’s the owner of the diner, Mr. President.”

“President of What?” the owner wanted to know. He stood up. He was a beefy man, wearing jeans and a flannel shirt which was opened so that it flapped in the breeze of a fan His greasy t-shirt had a name tag saying “Billy Bubba” on it.

“I am the President of SARN,” Kyle yelled. “I demand to sit where you are sitting and for you to leave me to eat.”

Vernon wasn’t liking this one bit. Suddenly the coffee rolled over in his stomach. “Excuse me, sir! I need to go to the bathroom!” To wit, he farted loudly and left a greasy stain in his pants. Vernon ran to the bathroom just as Bily Bubba started to speak again. Several people had gotten up from their seats so he had to elbow his way to the back of the restraunt.

Vernon finally reached the men’s room and managed to drop trou and sit on the throne moments before a smelly mess erupted from his body. he sat there, expelling waste at an alarming rate. He’d been specially treated to limit the number of restroom breaks he needed on the road and it seemed that he just now had gotten so stressed that some of his programming backfired.

Maybe twenty minutes later he cleaned himself off a little. He hadn’t soiled himself much but he waddled out of the restroom. Then he about-faced and went back in to wash his hands. He walked back down to where the altercation had happened.

Kyle was sitting serenly in the now-vacant booth. Vernon slid in across from him. He looked out the window and saw the lights of an ambulance parked in the parking lot. He looked back at Kyle inquiringly, not trusting himself to speak just now.

“I ripped out his liver and strangled him with it,” Kyle said proudly.

Vernon nodded.

“I’ll be having a side of liver with my steak, Vernon,” Kyle smiled.

“That is good, sir.” Vernon was sure this time Kyle wasn’t joking. He didn’t ask for an explanation this time.

Kevin pipes up, “Don’t advertise. Invite. Only tell people you know you implicitly trust to join us, one man or one woman at a time.”

Paul smiles. “Agreed.”

Kevin raises his index finger, “And don’t scare the heck outta them like you did with me that first night. That setup was hair-raising!”

Paul frowns. “It wasn’t a setup, Draxtin. I was invited to a meeting and I assumed it was a meeting of our own sect. I don’t normally batter down doors when I am among friends.”

Kevin is confused. “Another sect? Doors battered down? I saw none of that…” He scratches his head. “A voice called you ‘human’ and the next thing I know you’re standing ON the door with someone underneath it.”

Irene gasps. “You interrupted the Vampeer?”

Kevin shrugs. “I’m not sure who they were, Irene. What in the world is a Vamp Pee-er?”

Paul puts a hand on Kevin’s shoulder. “Very dangerous men and women, Kevin.  The Vampyre have a thirst for blood. The word is spelled V-A-M-P-Y-R-E. I guess the name signifies Peers who are Vampires.”

Kevin shrugs the hand off. “All I know is they must have a strange thirst for keeping their business in secret like. And theres seem to be secrets much better kept than our own.” He looks uneasy. “If the gov’t were to sneak up on and raid us…”

Irene looks annoyed. “His first meeting, we let him name the thing, and he’s already talking about raiding. Ducky, you are something.”

Kevin looks at her but doesn’t apologize. “We have secrets, yes. But we got a right to peacefully assemble. Those Vampissers …” He looks at the frown on Paul’s face. “Sorry, Vampyre. Well anyway, they seemed to be bathing in a ton of blood from what little I could see. I worry it were something occult.”

James let go of his brother’s wooden leg and rose from his chair. Off-balance, Jacob fell heavily onto his butt. He reached behind himself and produced a rifle with a bayonette on the front. He stabbed with the bayonette, lancing James in the right bicep.

The pain is an intense burst. James falls into darkness, passing out from the pain as Jacob twists the bayonette blade around in the wound.

In the darkness, James hears a voice muttering, “Nah, that’s not how it should happen.”

James open his eyes and is again restrained in the chair. Before he can speak, cold water from a bucket is tossed in his face. He shivers and curses and sputters. Jacob is standing in front of him, smoking and laughing somewhat.

“I see you awoke for your interrogation before we could wake you, brother.” The last word came out sounding like “brudder” because of the cigar pursed in his lips. “Well, rise and shine, Mr Sun.”

Surprised, James looks down at his brother’s feet. One leg seems fine and the foot is in a snow shoe. The other again terminates at the knee and has an X-shape to it.

“Ah, you see. Let me introduce myself,” Jacob says with amusement. “I am the CrossLegged Killer.”  The smile leaves his lips almost as fast as it had come upon them. “I am not an Injun despite the name.” Dis-pie da neigh-M, comes out the last part.

James smiles this time. “You sure don’t talk with an Injun accent, brother of mine.” He tests the ropes, finding them tight about him. No mysterious stranger to untie him in the flash this time it seems.

Jacob looks non-plussed. “Forgive me a moment… I… have we done this before?”

James perks up, “What was that?”

“Never you mind!” Jacob says this time loudly. He pushes aside his confusion. The moment had taken on a dream-like quality up until this point. So much so that James was thinking he was dreaming the event. Despite the chill from the water on his skin. It also appeared that Jacob’s moment of deja vu would lend credense to this notion.

Belatedly, a solidier behind James strikes him on the head with a backhand blow. “Don’t call our boss any names, you hear?”

James bit his tongue from the force of the blow. He spits on the ground next to himself.

Jacob smiles. “It appears we have a rare moment when my brother forgets his manners!” He raises a hand. “Don’t strike him again, Whitey.” He looks behind James’ back. “Nun a-yoo shall doo sew.”  

James can tell his brother is exaggerating his own accent on purpose to an extent but decides not to call him on it. Better to just have picked up on a sly dog’s trick. “Can I have a blanket, Jacob. It is a might cold out here like this.”

Jacob doesn’t look amused now. “Now maybe we’ll set you a fire and burn you like a witch, dear brother if you’re that cold?”

“You wouldn’t do so, not before interrogating me. And not at the risk of committing a war crime,” James said pointedly, more for the indulgence of his other captors rather than his brother’s sake.

“This war is a crime, James,” Jacob said. “A crime against the Sanctity of the South!” He has finished his smoking and drops the cigar butt in his brother’s lap. “God bless Her, I do so wish.”

James squirms a moment, dropping the cigar butt onto his seat then wiggles some more to dislodge it onto the ground.

“Ants in yer pants, James?” Jacob goads him. The men take a moment but then laugh at the joke.

Quick character study, Kyle Draxtin.
A twenty-something executive-type exits a cab in downtown Pinewood. He is wearing a brown suit and carrying a briefcase. He squints in the glare of the morning sunlight. He is speaking on his cell phone.

A truck comes hurtling down the road, spraying the yuppie with mud from a nearby mud puddle. The truck says “Sludge CO” on the sides and back. There is a phone number on the back. The trucker pulls his horn, blasting out a loud sound as he continues on his
merry way.

The trucker has just gotten on someone’s shit list he doesn’t want to be on. He has just ruined Mr. Draxtin’s suit but not his day. In fact he’s made this executive’s millennium.

Briefly pausing the conversation, Draxtin tells his assistant on the line to look up the phone number and license plate number of the truck. He recites it all calmly and precisely. Mr. Draxtin has a photographic memory. He makes a declaration, then asks for
the address of a nearby men’s store to buy a new suit. He’ll buy the suit later although he has a meeting at precisely 10 AM. Mr. Draxtin is punctual. He will be embarrassed and muddy but what is about to happen to Number 4,733 (the place that the trucker has
earned on that oh so expansive shit list) will be sweet to hear of.

Draxtin hangs up, looks both ways to make sure he is alone, then rattles out a laugh. The laugh isn’t a pleasant one.

Ten minutes later, the trucker is pulled over by a police car. At least by what appears to be a police car. The trucker curses. As he tries to compose himself, the “cop” walks up to the driver’s side of the truck. His partner is walking towards the opposite side of the
truck.

Cop: “Can you exit the vehicle, please?”

Trucker: “Uh, sure! How fast…” he is saying as he opens his door.

Before even taking a step, before he can even finish taking off his seat belt, the cop yells “GUN!” and puts two slugs in the trucker’s head, killing him. Number 4,733 has just been neatly erased. The second cop had been recording the incident with his cell phone. He captures the action beautifully, or at least as well as he can from his angle.

Mr. Draxtin will not be pleased. Number 4,734 has just found his way onto that shit list without realizing it.