Post by jwdiaz on Apr 6, 2012 7:27:37 GMT -5
“Do you always pick up hitchhikers?”
“Not really.” The driver spoke as if words were scarce in her vocabulary.
“I could be a murderer, you know,” the man said. “The murderer,” he added with a sardonic smile.
“Are you?” The woman’s brow crinkled momentarily. “I trust my instincts.”
“Perhaps you haven’t heard of the Highway Butcher,” he said, head turned toward her—his eyes about to burst out of their sockets. “I must’ve found the only driver who hasn’t heard of him.”
“Not really,” she said, and her foot involuntarily pressed down on the gas pedal. The car jumped, spurred by the shot of fuel. Bushes and grasses, along the edge of the road, swayed like frenzied dancers, goaded by the car’s flight.
“At least he’s humane,” the man continued, not bothered in the least by the sudden burst of speed. “A clean shot to the head. Makes you wonder why they call him butcher. Don’t butchers spill lots of blood?”
“Maybe it’s the number of victims,” she ventured, her knuckles white from clenching the steering wheel. “I heard victim number twelve was shot yesterday.”
The man seemed surprised by the gush of words out of her mouth. “Lucky thirteen coming up,” he said with a chuckle, then turning somber added, “It’s funny. ”
“What’s funny?” she asked. Then not giving him a chance to answer, she went on. “I don’t see what could be funny about this whole affair.”
“All happened on this highway,” he said matter-of-factly.
“Yeah, how did you manage to avoid getting picked up by a state trooper?” she said. “You’d think they’d be patrolling this road in force.”
“They are, but give me some credit here. I didn’t just show myself to every driver on the road,” he said. “Now, the butcher ... I’m sure he—”
“Okay!” She pressed the brake pedal and veered right, to the side of the road.
“Why are we stopping?”
“Why do you keep calling the killer he?” she asked. “It’s sexist you know. Now get out,” she ordered. “I detest having to scrub blood off of the seats.”
“Not really.” The driver spoke as if words were scarce in her vocabulary.
“I could be a murderer, you know,” the man said. “The murderer,” he added with a sardonic smile.
“Are you?” The woman’s brow crinkled momentarily. “I trust my instincts.”
“Perhaps you haven’t heard of the Highway Butcher,” he said, head turned toward her—his eyes about to burst out of their sockets. “I must’ve found the only driver who hasn’t heard of him.”
“Not really,” she said, and her foot involuntarily pressed down on the gas pedal. The car jumped, spurred by the shot of fuel. Bushes and grasses, along the edge of the road, swayed like frenzied dancers, goaded by the car’s flight.
“At least he’s humane,” the man continued, not bothered in the least by the sudden burst of speed. “A clean shot to the head. Makes you wonder why they call him butcher. Don’t butchers spill lots of blood?”
“Maybe it’s the number of victims,” she ventured, her knuckles white from clenching the steering wheel. “I heard victim number twelve was shot yesterday.”
The man seemed surprised by the gush of words out of her mouth. “Lucky thirteen coming up,” he said with a chuckle, then turning somber added, “It’s funny. ”
“What’s funny?” she asked. Then not giving him a chance to answer, she went on. “I don’t see what could be funny about this whole affair.”
“All happened on this highway,” he said matter-of-factly.
“Yeah, how did you manage to avoid getting picked up by a state trooper?” she said. “You’d think they’d be patrolling this road in force.”
“They are, but give me some credit here. I didn’t just show myself to every driver on the road,” he said. “Now, the butcher ... I’m sure he—”
“Okay!” She pressed the brake pedal and veered right, to the side of the road.
“Why are we stopping?”
“Why do you keep calling the killer he?” she asked. “It’s sexist you know. Now get out,” she ordered. “I detest having to scrub blood off of the seats.”