SAVAGE HIGHWAY
by Jack Moskovitz
One
Steve Jones detoured off I-680 to avoid the weigh station.
The two lane county road through Arnholt, Nebraska was mud slick. Drivers were warned of possible freezing drizzle before dusk.
Ahead, the pickup in the deuce and a half’s lane slowed without flashing its warning signal.
Jones tapped the air brakes, tapped the horn. The horn’s echo clattered against the tightly grouped vacant store fronts on both sides of the eight lane main street.
The wind picked up.
The corner diner’s neon pierced the swirling fog. Jones geared down, eased toward the adjoining lane. The pickup cut into that lane and swerved avoiding the three-ton transport’s bumper. Jones slammed his fist against the steering wheel. The horn made a nasal sound.
The shotgun above the windshield visor rattled.
A woman in the pickup’s passenger seat turned. She flashed the finger.
Steve reached for the twelve gauge.
The pickup stopped at the curb. The woman pulled a younger woman across the seat, and into the rain.
The younger woman shrieked: “Damn you, no.”
“Damn me, yes.”
The buxom woman tore the girl’s blouse from her shoulders. The slender woman didn’t wear or need a bra.
“Now this looks interesting,” Steve said.
Wind blown storm clouds unloaded, raced across the horizon. “No . . . no . . .” The girl whimpered, pounded her fists against the laughing broad’s shoulders.
“See how easy it is, Mike?” She said to the driver.
Eyes wild, he drooled. Giggled when the girl’s jeans were around her ankles. Howled when the thong pinched her thighs. She fell back. Mud squished under her butt.
“Come on, Mona,” the big woman said. “Give me the rest of it.”
“No!”
The woman lifted Mona’s butt cheeks. “Oh . . .”
Her cry was like a dying animal’s: so weak it was lost in the wind.
Growling, the attacker ripped the thong and the jeans past Mona’s ankles. She heaved the garments into the street.
“Baby needs a spanking.” The attacker was breathing hard.
Mouth wide in an unending scream, the naked woman protected her head, rolled to avoid the pummeling.
The rain gushed between her full breasts.
Her tapered belly rippled. The palm covering the shaved mound fell away.
Her cries quieted. Her hips thrashed. She squirmed, eyes glazed. Ten men and four women in jackets and great coats ran, laughing, from the diner.
Someone in the crowd yelled: “The bitch deserves a good spanking. “Is there any other kind?”
“That plump, round bottom needs to be jiggled,” Mike wiped his lips.
His companion rubbed her hands. “That’s what Mayor George Jay wants.”
Jones pulled up his coat collar. Getting out, he showed the twelve gauge.
“Now folks, the lady’s been hurt enough.”
“She ain’t no lady,” the buxom woman said. “She’s a misbehavin’ cunt, is what she is.”
“This is between the town and the bitch.” The young man opened his jacket.
A three-fifty-seven was strapped to his chest, “Mine’s bigger than yours.” His laugh showed toothless jaws. Jones squeezed a round. The boom reverberated, whined when the slug tore a piece of blacktop near the young man’s foot.
He jumped, stumbled into his companion’s arms. The crowd retreated. “Ya see, son.” Jones aimed at Mike’s chest. “A fish with sharp gums is still a fish.”
“Aw,” Mike said.
Rain streaked his face. His eyelids fluttered. The plump woman glared. “She ain’t worth the grief, trucker.”
“Convince your partner, lady.” Steve backed up to the driver’s door.
Mona was gone. He reached for the door handle.
“I don’t want any trouble, folks. This being my first visit to your delightful town.”
Grumbling, they flicked their coat collars. From the other side of the street they watched him.
He pulled himself into the cab.
The cunt and underarm odors told him he was not alone.
“Carry passengers, trucker?” Mona forced a smile.