Suggested Audio Jukebox ♬
 Lindsey Buckingham “Holiday Road”
 Yes “Owner of A Lonely Heart”
 Bruce Springsteen “Born To Run”
 Chris Rea “The Road To Hell”
 Ray Charles “Hit The Road Jack”
You’d be doing the same thing if you were in my heels. If statistics are accurate, then there’s a 0.000089% chance of winding up dead while hitchhiking in the United States, and that’s good enough for a born gambler like yours truly. I mean, I’d have to be pretty goddamn unlucky to have some whack job pull over, and besides, I don’t fit the profile of lamb to the slaughter. Traditionally these mobile mutilators prey on the meek, the easy picking types with little to no discernible backbone. When your sweatshirt reads I WILL TEAR YOUR SOUL APART, it acts as virtual guarantor for your safe passage, and it would be a fool to the power of damn who attempted any funny business.
Besides, it’s a good 10k to my final destination, and that’s nine more than I’m comfortable with walking right now. Had I not been soundly inebriated, then perhaps I’d be content with doubling that tally, but it was too late to cry sobriety the very moment I knocked back the third fireball in short succession and flashed my tits to a rough collie. Within seconds, my lipstick wasn’t the deepest shade of red in the room, and Lassie evidently had designs on finding a new home to wreck enthusiastically. Another couple of ill-considered fireballs and he may just have been granted that wish too you know.
It was about then that the Christmas office party began to lose its appeal somewhat. I could just imagine turning up on Monday morning, still half-cut 36 hours past last orders, and being shipped straight off to the vets to be spayed. News travels with the velocity of a lanky emu in a ten-strong workforce, particularly when it took nine people to pull the randy mongrel in question off me, none of whom were keen on offering me a ride home afterwards curiously enough. Heaven only knows what kind of repercussions I can look forward to after tomorrow’s bitching hangover has had its vile way with me.
To be completely frank, disciplinary procedures are the very least of my concerns presently as I hear hypothermia is a particularly discourteous condition and I’m fast regretting my decision to leave the house this evening clad in a dress that resembles a postage stamp. Granted, I wasn’t expecting to be left marooned at 2am in the morning, but that doesn’t stop the wind from whistling straight up the Khyber pass. Had I mentioned I’m allergic to wearing panties too? As we speak, Jack Frost is ascertaining precisely what I had for lunch and I’m not over enamored with his heavy breathing if I’m honest.
The way I see it, there are two options at my disposal. Either I dash to the bushes and puke up my guts for the umpteenth time, even though I’m reasonably assured that there’s nothing whatsoever left to yak. Or I slap on that happy sticker and get cracking with the roadside enticement necessary to bag myself a ride donor. Ordinarily this wouldn’t pose much of a problem for the girl known as Leggy Peggy back at high school. Unless I’ve confused my road signs, flashing a little thigh is as sure-fire a sweetener as they come and I highly doubt that a passing motorist will spot any incriminating paw prints.
However, I can barely feel them anymore, such is the lack of circulation in my lower torso, and it’s no mean feat transforming a grimace into anything even vaguely sexy. On a more perky note, I’m not exactly a champion for wearing bras either, and my nipples are currently more unyielding than a pair of sheet metal wigwams so I reckon I have myself a brace of bargaining tools right beneath my nose. If only I possessed nine pairs of bosoms, I could set up a roadblock and be back in my cosy apartment before the next wave of nausea approaches.
In case you were wondering, mine are the ones on the bottom left and yes they are 100% natural before you start crying out stunt titties. You tell me, if you’d been on the road for five hours straight and not passed a service station for the last two of those, would you pull over and lend assistance with these babies as incentive? If nothing else, you’d slow down to a crawl right? Which is just enough time for me to bundle through your passenger side window like Daisy Duke and land face down with my lips in your lap.
It’s as good a deal as done at that point as I’ve done my homework and that included swatted up thoroughly on the rules of the road. According to the hitchhiker’s guide, passengers are required to compensate the driver to the tune of one mobile oil change and, should the journey exceed 10k, then the pilot is permitted to park up somewhere suitably inconspicuous and savor the moment with shit kickers perched on the dashboard. Looks like I qualify for the former so the transaction should be completed right about the time we pull up on my driveway. How’s that for door to door service?
Not that I wish to pluck my own cello but my mother packed a banana in my tuck box every morning before school and there always seemed to be a large male crowd around me at lunchtime if you get what I’m driving at. Before Leggy Peggy took off, Deborah Deep Throat was the name and sucking the meanest sausage in state was the game that had the entire Lacrosse team literally lining up to string their sticks for. Seven in one evening was my personal best and it would have been eight had it not been for my gag reflex and the rather unfortunate resulting case of lockjaw.
And that was the night when Colleen Cock Crunch was born. At any rate, that was several years ago now and I have my trusty gum shield in place at all times to ensure that history never repeats itself. Don’t much fancy adding acute whiplash to my ever growing list of Saturday night grievances. I just want to be home sweet home with four fingers rammed down my throat and a flannel on my forehead if that’s not too obscene a request.
Well I have to say, I’m not best pleased with the lack of compassion being shown tonight. There’s not been as a single pit stop thus far and I’m appalled by such negligible behavior. While I understand that most men have homes to go to with it being Christmas Eve and all, presents don’t much more gift-wrapped than the one screaming out “PICK ME, PICK ME!” while practically unwrapping itself by the roadside. Meanwhile, those significant others need never learn of any double-dealing as the last thing they’re going to want to do after writing out three dozen gift tags is put out.
Yet still not a solitary whiff of potential savior, just the prospect of ten frostbitten digits to look forward to and the less than alluring title, Noreen Knuckles, as I spend over an hour attempting to log into my email at start of play Monday. At least Rose had a working rape whistle to alert any passing shipmates when her bones began freezing, mine is apparently only audible to canines and that’s still something of a sore point in more ways than one. Please somebody, anybody, throw me a bone here before I end up on the stairway to heaven, which happens to be where all dogs go as cruel irony would have it.
I blame Rutger Hauer you know. Since thumbing that ride across the West Texas desert back in 1986, decent hard-working nomads worldwide have been subjected to all manner of negative press, and motorists generally assume we’re going to slit their throats the very moment our seatbelts are fastened. I guess I can’t berate folk too much for being a little over-cautious but all I’m asking for here is one measly Samaritan to get spontaneous and cut this sweet-natured unassuming country girl some slack.
Instead I’ve been mooned at by about a dozen college chumps, splashed with around a gallon of sub-zero slush, and one thoughtless hoon (who bore an uncanny resemblance to Richard E. Grant I might add) even wound down his window just to call me “Scrubber”. Whatever happened to seasonal cheer? Does goodwill to all men not extend to the fairer sex? What does a girl have to do around here to find her way home? It would appear that the age of chivalry is in our rearview now and I’m starting to know only too well how it feels.
Well do you know what? Fuck cheap-assed tinsel and garish baubles, fuck wandering stars and all three of the wise men, fuck constant TV reruns of Harry Potter & The Philosopher’s Stone, fuck a month’s supply of cold turkey sandwiches, fuck Mariah Carey for ever recording “that song”, fuck Bing Crosby too for planting the infernal seed in her ditzy head in the first place, fuck festive crackers for being so uninspiring, fuck party hats for splitting before we can so much as slide them onto our heads, fuck Ebenezer Scrooge for not having the courage of his convictions, fuck mince pies and Christmas pudding for tasting like warmed up shit, fuck Tim Allen, fuck Hasbro for advertising this year’s must-have toy before making it nigh-on impossible to procure, fuck snowmen for not sticking around longer, fuck toboggans for never going in the direction you wish them to, fuck meemaw for buying me socks for the fifth year running, fuck the Boxing Day sales for luring us into the stores with loss-leading products that will be sold out long before we reach the front of the queue, and fuck the mindless drones that flock out in their millions on a day that was once considered sacred just to grab themselves a bargain. While I’m on a roll here, fuck Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen, Blitzen, Comet, Cupid, Donder, and Rudolph, fuck every last shitheel elf who works tirelessly around the clock for minimum wage, and above all else, fuck Father Christmas for the 364 days a year that he sits around on his fat ass playing Guitar Hero. Bah humbug!
Okay rant over as I actually feel a little better after getting that little load off my chest. Better yet, my passionate display appears to have attracted the interest on one warm-natured traveller who has pulled over a hundred or so yards up the road, seemingly for my benefit. If I was feeling pernickety then I’d gripe about being made to make up the ground to catch this ride but I’m not about to look a gift horse in the mouth, particularly when it has a carburetor strapped to its saddle.
What matters most is that the night’s ordeal appears to be behind me, basic human decency has won out, and my faith in humanity has been reinstated. Granted, the vehicle in question is a little ramshackle, barely roadworthy if I’m honest, but beggars can’t be choosers and I’m hardly in a position to start checking the air pressure in his tyres am I? Time to bat these long lustrous lashes of mine and make him an offer he cannot possibly refuse.
“Why hello there stranger”
“Where ya headed?”
“Denham Springs. That sound doable to you?”
“Well it’s a little outta my way but hop in. We’ll see what we can do”
Never fails. I wonder what’s running through his dirty little mind right now. Probably trying to figure out which position to mount me in or how to explain a dozen or so back scratches to his wife when he arrives home considerably lighter in the load.
“By the way, you may wanna remove the puke from your hair before you make yourself comfortable”
Really? None of you thought to inform me of that tiny little potentially dealbreaking detail prior to our road trip? Thanks a bundle for being my eyes and ears but I think I’ll take it from here thank you very much. In a few short seconds time, I’ll have this sucker eating out of my palm, and we’ll find out how fast this death trap of his shifts. Money in the bank bitches! That said, I’d better rescue the situation before he goes flaccid and wheel spins off into the night never to be seen again.
“Is that better? Am I more…presentable now?”
Thank God for the cleavage. Take a look at these beauties and tell me you’ve ever seen another pair quite like them without first taking out an annual subscription. Judging by the dilated pupils and full mast brow, I’d say the girls have done their duty. Poor backward bastard never stood a chance; this hitchhiking business really is too easy. So whatcha sayin’ Cleatus? May I suggest the old yeehaw/thigh slap combo?
“Whatever. Just buckle up and give me the signal if you think you’re gonna hurl. I didn’t get this baby valeted for you to throw up all over my leather upholstery you know”
“Aye aye, captain”
Playing it coy I see. Nice try buckwheat but the eyes cannot lie any better than your massive erection can. Let’s see how your resolve fares up once my fragrant sexual aroma wafts across to your side of the cockpit.
“Lord of all that’s sacred. What is that godawful stench?”
“Don’t tell me it doesn’t make you wanna drool”
“Gag would be more appropriate. Smells like premium beef and liver dog chow. Have you just come back from Crufts or something?”
That fucking frisky collie. Someone should get that mangy mutt put down if you ask me. Looks like I need to engage in a dash of damage limitation before I’m ejected from a moving vehicle by way of shit kicker.
“I…erm…run an underground dog fighting syndicate”
Hell’s bells and whistles, was that actually the best I could come up with under duress? Hopefully he likes a flutter and will allow that comment to pass. Knowing my shitty luck, he’s an ambassador for the RSPCA and I’m about three soul-destroying seconds away from wearing an asphalt face pack.
“Whatever floats your boat lady. Mine ain’t to judge”
That’s right pal, yours is to deliver my weather-beaten ass home without incident and don’t you forget it. Come to think of it, there as been no mention of payment for services rendered as yet as I’m beginning to take that personally also. Let’s not bend the baloney, tonight’s chauffeur isn’t exactly what you’d call my type and I likely wouldn’t provide him a second glance if we passed in the street. But excessive alcohol has a tendency to make me frisky and it’s been way too long since I last guzzled down a fatty.
“You know I have no money for gas right? Just don’t want there to be any crossed wires”
“Do I look like a cabbie? Forget it, I’ve got a full tank anyway”
“I bet you have”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing whatsoever. Just letting you know that I’m the kind of gal who’s more than happy to play by the rules if you know what I mean”
“I’ll keep that in mind”
Is this thing set to Hebrew or something? I mean, far be it from me to point out the obvious as, despite the fact that my skirt is riding up and I’m reasonably certain my vajayjay is visible, I’m still a lady and expect to be treated as such. That said, I’d still like to think that men desire me, and all this indifference is beginning to give me a complex. Perhaps he’s a trappist monk or something. Worse still, what if he’s a eunuch? That bulge in his pants could be an untreated hernia and I don’t fancy it popping in my face the moment I slide his zipper down. Please God just give me a sign.
And who says the Almighty doesn’t listen to his children? However, I’m a little unsettled by two things right now. Firstly, unless my hearing is all out of whack, that ominous sound came directly from his rear quarter, the trunk no less. Secondly, it appears to have him soundly rattled. The plot it does thicken.
Not sure what should bother me most right now – the raised tone of his voice or the fact that it coincided with a fairly unmistakable facial twitch. Far be it from me to go jumping to conclusions but it is a little suspicious, as is his nervous tapping of the steering column and the faint back and forth rocking motion he has suddenly adopted. So you can smell mutt can you buster? Well I call your canine claim and raise it with that of a rat. And we’re not talking the domestic type either; I mean the real sewer dwelling variety. The glow in the dark type whose urine could burn through reinforced chromium as though it were rice paper.
There it is again and a secondary stench is now stinging my nostrils, that being the funk of skullduggery. I may be a fair few sheets to the wind here but stupidity is not an affliction I suffer from and signs don’t come more telltale than that.
I stand corrected. Moreover, I may have just suffered a dash of involuntary flooding from my lady abattoir. It’s hard to say for certain without a pair of nylon panties to soak up the intelligence but those things gave me the most wretched thrush and, unless he’s wired up his window wipers wrong, I believe I just squirted on his floor mat. I’ll be buggered if I’m sitting here like an obedient little quarry while he prepares to chop me into iddy biddy little pieces with a woodsman’s axe. However, sudden moves could prove just as calamitous and I have to play it cool until I can investigate my immediate surroundings further. Perhaps I should begin with the back seat; see what kind of literature he’s currently reading. That should give me a clearer idea of who I’m dealing with here. Must remain inconspicuous at all times and not let on that I’m sniffing around for clues.
“Well would you look at that, that armadillo is mounting a Tequila bottle”
Worked like a charm. Now to do a little harmless digging while his attention is diverted. Time is critical here as it shouldn’t take him long to suss out he’s been duped. Just a single fleeting glance over my shoulder should do it. Here goes.
Okay so now I’m starting to worry a little. Trust me to get picked up by Ed bleeding Gein. I’m not ordinarily one to jump to conclusions but, where I come from, an axe on the back seat is a surefire sign that I really should have taken the bus. It’s imperative I don’t let on that I’m fully privy to his nutbag antics or else his trunk will play host to two muffled cries and I’ve never been good with confined spaces, much less with a hatchet embedded in my spleen. If I get out of this alive, the first thing I’m doing is taking a crash course as hitchhiking and I evidently ain’t cut out for one another.
“I ain’t seeing no armadillos”
“Must’ve been a trick of the light or something”
“You know, you’re really starting to piss on my fender missy”
That’s it, he’s gonna hack me up. Oh my God, Oh my God, Oh my God. I’ve had it, I’m worm meal, Miss Daisy didn’t have to put up with this shit. Right now I have one thing working in my favor and one thing only. He has two hands on the steering column and, unless he can swing an axe with the power of thought alone, I should have a small window of opportunity for an eleventh hour eject. That said, he’s currently belting along at a pace of around 70km an hour, and I’ve heard it remarked that exiting a speeding vehicle is a little like taking a dump in a crowded public restroom with exemplary acoustics, a great deal easier said than done. The one thing I don’t want to do is act rashly although not doing so when riding shotgun with a schizoid is going to take the kind of inhuman willpower that I’m not altogether sure I possess.
“You know, I think maybe we got off on the wrong foot here. Can we just dial things back and start over?”
“I’ve got a better idea”
Why the hell are we slowing down? Is he reaching into his pocket? No doubt he’ll produce a chloroform doused rag just to gain himself the all-important upper hand. Things are getting way beyond desperate.
“Are you pulling over? Please tell me why you’re pulling over”
“All in good time. You’ll see”
You know, I never would have thought I had it in me, but this axe murdering lark ain’t so bad once you get the first few swings out-of-the-way. I’m particularly roused by the fact that his skull split wide open like a honeydew melon and just as interested to ascertain how many more chops it takes before the twitching ceases. It’s strange, his whimpered pleas were hardly those of a hardened destroyer and he appeared genuinely distressed as I prepared my opening swipe. Whatever happened to dying by the same sword you live by? Isn’t sickness like his supposed to hold out to the bitter end? Why the despair? Surely he knew in his heart of hearts that it would end this way eventually. I mean, how many felled dogs can one man kick before one of them bares its teeth? Well I’ve got a newsflash for you bucko before we cut to the weather – the dog days are over my friend. Looks like you messed with the wrong hitch bitch!
Would it be wrong at this point to admit that actually felt rather good? Dare I say a little empowering even? Not that I have any inclination to make a habit out of cold-blooded murder, this was strictly a one-time deal and only undertaken as all other options at my disposal had been thoroughly exhausted. But I reckon that Aileen Wuornos would have been proud of my spirited performance here and I’ve always wanted to become an ambassador for something other than dislocating my jaw to accommodate a chubbster. More critically, I’m now out of danger’s way and can finally take that peek in the trunk to justify my actions further. My ears did not deceive and, if there was any lingering doubt whatsoever over the muffled cry I heard, then the fact that it just rang out a second time. That poor girl is clearly hanging in there grimly and it is my public duty to release her from her anguish and deliver her safely to the front steps of the first hospital I pass so they can reattach any unmarried appendages.
Before I pop this trunk and reveal what I’ve known all along, I feel obliged to warn you that it’s not likely to be a pretty picture. Those of a weaker disposition may wish to look away right about now and remain that way until which time as I give you the all-clear. Meanwhile, those in possession of a wrought-iron gut or more attuned to sights of sickening slaughter have my blessing to start scoffing that popcorn as you’re about to be provided that money shot you’ve been hanging out for ever since the first dubious stern thump. Ladies and gentlemen, I present you…THE MOST SHEER AND BLOODY OF CARNAGE!
“Are you my mommy?”
Well that certainly wasn’t in the script. Credit where it’s due, they sure make these things realistic nowadays, and the authentic tears are a novel touch for sure. But I’m beginning to suspect that I may well have dropped a lady bollock here you know, particularly given that father dearest had already written out a gift tag. MY DEAREST AMELIA, MAY YOUR CHRISTMAS BE AS MAGICAL AS THE DAY YOU WERE BORN. ALL MY LOVE ALWAYS POPPET. POPS XXX. I’ve got a quick question for you – How do you like my brand new fiddlesticks? It gets worse too you know. Remember that axe? That’s right, the one currently lodged about three inches deep in daddy’s spinal column. Well it turns out that it has its other uses after all and is especially adept at chopping down festive ferns. This particular shrubbery is a bona fide beauty and has to be at least seven-foot tall, which makes it all the more impressive a feat that it fits so snugly in the rear section of such a modest sized automobile.
In light of recent revelations, I believe I may have been a tad hasty in my judgement. That said, there can be no ignoring the fact that he was reaching in his pocket for something and I still maintain that he was a wrong ‘un, likely just providing a cunning diversion for the real reason he as out here picking up attractive young women at the dead of night on Christmas Eve when he should have been at home boning the missus. Well I guess there’s ony one way to put this to bed once and for all. Let’s see what papa’s brand new bag was packing shall we?
A pamphlet for Amway? You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. You mean I just diced this deadbeat because he was about to try and recruit me for a pyramid scheme? Does anyone know a decent and affordable attorney? Actually scrap that, there are more pressing concerns right now than endeavoring to get my sentence reduced, and they entail dumping any human surplus in the canal, before being perpetually haunted by the ghost of Christmas past as that bastard doesn’t miss a trick I hear. Is it too late to vow never to drink again per chance? Chalk this one down to a bad day at the office and work on making Santa’s good girl shortlist next year instead. Hell I’ll even make a resolution out of it to show willing. One more thing and I promise I’ll get out of your hair and let you get on with the obligatory seasonal cheer. Is that stray collie sniffing about no more than ten yards from my coordinates sizing me up for a sound mounting as we speak? Lightning can’t strike twice in one night can it?
It can? Apparently the rules of the road also extend to randy canines. Furthermore, I suspect I’m about to learn why they’re called rough collies. Fuck it, this is the closest I’m getting to an alibi by the looks of it. I do have one teensy stipulation before you go applying that lipstick buster – under no circumstances whatsoever is kissing on the lips permitted and that includes licking my teeth enthusiastically. Oh, and one more thing before it slips my mind, can a four-legged friend swear its oath in a court of law?