Contributor: Rob Bliss
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A new generation of them popped up. Sons and daughters of those goddamn hippies I fought in the ‘60s. Still greasy long hairs, welfare bums, pot-smoking degenerates. If I could still get it up, I’d give them free love with a hard fuck. Leave them by the side of the road where their hitchhiking trail ends. But my dick is dead now, after long years of bad use, so I do what I can.
I wouldn’t pick any of them up, wouldn’t touch them. But I watch for them, thumbs out, packs stitched with patches sagging on their skinny ribbone backs, tie-dye shirts flapping in the breeze, full of holes like their liberal minds.
Travel the back roads looking for them. Where traffic doesn’t happen, just gravel trucks heading away from the pit, loggers, transports that can’t slow down, keeping tight to their schedules. Good hard-working men.
The damn things turn when they hear me, arm stretched out, smiling, hair blowing across their drugged eyes. Sometimes a girl and a boy, losing themselves, finding themselves on the backroads of their nation. My nation.
I rev and crash into their cunts and cocks, dead on or sometimes clipping an arm, a leg, a pack. Whip the bodies into the air, over the hood (smacked spiderweb crack in the windshield, easily repaired, call it a deer if the repairman asks), into the deep ditch of weeds and reeds and trickling streams.
Red coloured across the grass green, the bulrush brown, mud black. A thousand dents in my fender, sidewalls, the passenger and driver mirrors long since smacked off by hard hits.
The damage a small price for thinning the herd, their bone bodies rotting in the country ditches for months, years, picked clean by crow and coyote.
Roads where no one stops to take in the scenery, or the beauty of the countryside, the beauty of good, wholesome god-fearing folk.
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I have a degree in English and Writing. I have been, or will be, published in SNM Magazine, Schlock Webzine, microhorror, and Blood Moon Rising.
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A new generation of them popped up. Sons and daughters of those goddamn hippies I fought in the ‘60s. Still greasy long hairs, welfare bums, pot-smoking degenerates. If I could still get it up, I’d give them free love with a hard fuck. Leave them by the side of the road where their hitchhiking trail ends. But my dick is dead now, after long years of bad use, so I do what I can.
I wouldn’t pick any of them up, wouldn’t touch them. But I watch for them, thumbs out, packs stitched with patches sagging on their skinny ribbone backs, tie-dye shirts flapping in the breeze, full of holes like their liberal minds.
Travel the back roads looking for them. Where traffic doesn’t happen, just gravel trucks heading away from the pit, loggers, transports that can’t slow down, keeping tight to their schedules. Good hard-working men.
The damn things turn when they hear me, arm stretched out, smiling, hair blowing across their drugged eyes. Sometimes a girl and a boy, losing themselves, finding themselves on the backroads of their nation. My nation.
I rev and crash into their cunts and cocks, dead on or sometimes clipping an arm, a leg, a pack. Whip the bodies into the air, over the hood (smacked spiderweb crack in the windshield, easily repaired, call it a deer if the repairman asks), into the deep ditch of weeds and reeds and trickling streams.
Red coloured across the grass green, the bulrush brown, mud black. A thousand dents in my fender, sidewalls, the passenger and driver mirrors long since smacked off by hard hits.
The damage a small price for thinning the herd, their bone bodies rotting in the country ditches for months, years, picked clean by crow and coyote.
Roads where no one stops to take in the scenery, or the beauty of the countryside, the beauty of good, wholesome god-fearing folk.
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I have a degree in English and Writing. I have been, or will be, published in SNM Magazine, Schlock Webzine, microhorror, and Blood Moon Rising.
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Author:
Rob Bliss
