If he sees the cyclist´s body tangled in the fender as he passes there will be trouble. It only takes one glance into the rear view.
What am I thinking? The driver of the 16-wheeler won´t be looking back – not at some cheap-ass trailer he just cut up. He will be speeding on his way to the next shipment. Right now, stopping a hell spawn from crunching on my bones is my priority. I hear its cry – wretched, wracked, torn – or maybe, that´s just how I feel. I unclip my seat belt, unsheath the bowie knife, and clamber out of the captain´s chair. When I get into the living space I know what to expect: diaper fallen to the ground in pieces – check; shiny gloop covering the corroded leather upholstery – check; razor-toothed critter smashing up what remains of the cupboards – check. Not that there is much left to destroy. The dinette where I used to flick through my one issue of National Geographic and drink a warm can of Natty Ice has gone. With all the laminate stripped off, it looks like a chopping block. It´s stood up to the knife work I´ve done on it pretty good too. All I have now is the tracksuit I´m in, and a beard that Daniel Boone would envy. Us dads can´t be picky. It shakes a little clawed fist, and belches out another fly. I let out a sigh; even being the father of a demon fiend has its moments of pride – not that I have a choice in any of this. Diaper rash doesn´t begin to describe what I clear away with a pair of tongues, cotton balls, and a bottle of paint stripper every day. Yes, mistakes I have made but dumpster diving outside the K-Mart, or Wally World as I call it, down interstate 13, Delaware, has got to be one of the worst. When I saw it among the junk I thought it was an animal. Never know what you can sell; so I prodded it with the plastic broom handle I keep tied to the roof. First contact sealed the deal. I sate its hunger; it doesn´t eat me. Not a great deal but it works. Looking down at my feet, I know we´re near to the dregs of the last hitchhiker. It knows too. Good thing, I am such a poor driver then, or rather an unexpectedly good murderer. I keep it occupied with a hunk of foot meat I pull from the freezer before going outside to clean up today´s roadkill meal, and grab any gas money there is for grabbing. Babies sure give meaning to life. I hop off the rig onto the asphalt calling out to the cyclist, blade out, in case force impact hasn´t delivered the killing blow. When I see the helmet raise up and quiveringly assess its surroundings, I know this is going to be a long rest stop.