Abduct, Parry, and Bisect

or So Long Dull Days

Peg says I can't be takin' just anybody back to the shed. Says I gotta diversify some. Challenge myself. Don’t want to stick in a rut she tells me, almost every evenin’ just afore sleepytime. 

And I suppose she’d be right. Been feelin’ like a bag-o-tots in recent days. The kinda low where there’s just no thrillin in the killin anymore. No bumpy skin, no blood rush head halo, no kemical shakedown. It’s like I jump em at the toll booth, drag em into the field, down the tractor ruts and by the time I get to the hack shack, I just lose that lovin feelin and its gone. 

She reminds me, Peg she does, there’s virtue in the violence—gotta feel some pride inside. Its a family bizness after all. And I know she’s right. I’m aimin’ to mix it up danger edition. Get my chambers jammin’ and my cold hands wet with lifejuice and the last syrupy spit sputtering a final cruel peace. 

And on this particular day, oranging and burnt blue, while I ordinarily let the pickups roll by, on this occasion I hike up the denim, flatten out my high viz vest, and step out of the old pay station and on to the crunch of gravel. My hand goes up and a tandem big wheel grunts to a stop. 

These chonk pilots were typically more trouble than they were worth. Muscled stupid with primal lizard rage, there’s a reason I liked my luxury mommy Es Yoo Veez as typical marks. Softer and more reasonable they were once you gave them the ol’ hush-or-else. 

Confident and bolstered by a couple Cayenne Power Pops, there I was facing down a sideburn tarzan yahoo. And I suppose from the benchseat chariot, this chuckleduck was wondering why some soy pickin ditch hick was botherin to fart around official-like in the middle of god-knows-where-the-fuck, 

I nod a polite affirmation and step around driver side as he lowers the snot shield. Got some sensitive biotech up ahead, mind if we have a check-and-see back of the truck bed?, I ask him casual-like so he doesnt get all sus. 

Of course he agrees, climbs down and unclasps the canvasback bedcover and I seize the opportunity. A couple of konk konks to the back of the head with my trusty maglite and the hunk of a man-man goes down to the aggregate. 

I can barely drag the weight, but I hear Peg between the earholes, No strain no brain, she says, so I heave-grunt the body on to my cardboard sled, then onto the grass where I can slidey-slide em away easy style. 

First, I gotta move the truck though. And while I’m park-tucking the beast up by the ditch, I see the sleepy ape trying to get up. Groggy and steaming, I can see the heat gas rising from his squirming mass, so I run into the checkpoint office and grab my secret emergency machete. I hear Peg again, nagging tween the hemispheres, Dont make a mess out there, no trace no case, and I know what she means but I got no time to think about being all tidy at this juncture. 

He’s already up and stumbling at me wild. I dodge his initial dive tackle and he slams into the derelict lift gate, breaking it off, and magically producing an immaculate weapon of convenience. 

I come at him fast but he parrys my swing with his goddam chunka wood. The vibration rattles my wrists and for a sec I’m gettin all regretful cuz this goon is rollin high and hot. Eyes like black diamonds. I can smell his mad funk off-gassing as he tries another jumptackle. 

I see what she means, Peg in her flipstickin' wisdom, cuz I got the horny might of gods bollocks coursin through my ventrikles—all fever-y and glowin'. I fake a bad knee to bring him in closer and that's when I give em the high flyin’ hop-n-chop right top of the ol’ crown. Bisected his skull like I was splittin' a pear. Bit of a short cut, sure, but when the fight rush takes off, you gotta commit. 

Back to the sledge quick for a hustle down to the butchery now. I'll hang em up, maybe give him an extra death poke for good measure, then back to the road to rake the gravel and play cover-up-charlie before the hunter moon climbs above the corn tops.

Peg knows best. She always says so, even if it's a lotta work for a bit of the 'lectric force shove. Enough of a push anyway to wobble me outta routine and into salty new grooves of mirth and murder. So long dull days. 

Thanks to

Edith Bow

who’s starting up this business: