Truck Stop

Truck Stop

by Torrent

Look, it's like I told the cops — someone poked a hole in my back, took my truck, took my Indian princess and left me for dead.

All the rest — what I was carrying, where I picked up Cherry — it really don't matter. But hell, Doc, you saved my life, and I owe you.

So here's the story.

The company told me I'd be hauling a high-value load. Three pressurized tanks inside a bullet-proof steel cylinder. I said, just tell me this, is any of this shit radioactive? I don't carry radioactive and I don't drive through radioactive. And I carry a beep-counter to make sure I don't.

They said, it ain't radioactive. It's FuckFoam, the stuff they use to make Di-Clones. It ain't even classed as a hazardous substance. Sure, you got a goddam smelly mess if it gets out, but it's safe.

That was the good news. The bad news was that I'd have to drive pretty close to Nashville. There's other ways to get from Indy to Memphis, but the only way to avoid Vandals is to stick to the Eye Roads — I-65, I-40. And that means coming pretty goddam close to that radioactive pile of shit that used to be downtown Nashville.

Well, they're paying me 80,000 Federal, which is more than I made all of last year, so I say, what the hell.

The first hundred miles or so was uneventful. I had another company driver who needed a ride to Louisville. All he did was talk. Some guys like company in the cab, but I like to listen to classical music, not some asshole telling me his life story and how he's angling for an office job.

I dropped him off just south of Louisville and picked up three cans of hydrogen, enough to get me to Memphis, if I didn't run into trouble.

I'd been told the run from Louisville to Bowling Green was fairly easy. You might run into punks with shotguns, but no Vandals. No one with heavy stuff.

It was getting dark, and I was about ten miles south of E'town when I saw the big Topaz sign all lit up off the side of the road:

GAS GUNS GIRLS.

I didn't need no gas, and I had three guns, which was two more than I was ever likely to get a chance to use. But I was horny, so I pulled in.

There was two big rigs and a Federal police van at the pumps, and a bunch of trailers at the edge of the pad. That was a bad sign. It likely meant their drivers had abandoned them. Too scared to keep heading south.

I went inside. A cop was teasing the waitress, and the two truckers were eating burgers and not talking. They looked glum.

The manager was behind the register, reading a magazine.

"Business looks slow," said I.

He looked up. "It is slow. I'm going broke here."

"Well, I'm here to help you out," I said, flipping him my Topaz card. "What you got in the way of girls?"

He inserted the card and glanced at the monitor. "No way, buddy. You cost us 2,000 F's on your last rental."

Now, I know I got a little rough on the last girl I rented, up around Gary, but I was pretty damn sure that fixing her up didn't cost more than the 500 F damage deposit. Still, I didn't want to get into an argument and miss a chance for some female companionship. I figured it could be a long way to the next truck stop that offered girls.

"Okay," says I, pulling out a wad of bills, "here's 1,500 F's. That and the deposit should cover what you say I owe. Now, what you got tonight?"

"A blonde with big tits, named Honey Dew. And an Indian princess named Cherokee. They're in the back room."

When I went in, they were sitting on bar stools, smoking and listening to bluesy jazz.

The blonde was my type. Big tits, pouty mouth, and an expression that said, "I'm too dumb to do anything but fuck." Even better, she had a shiner. Her left eye was almost swollen shut.

"Looks like you ran into someone rough," I said.

"Yeah," she said.

"A trucker?"

"No," she said. "Bristol, the manager."

Christ, I thought to myself. I just paid $1,500 for beating up one of these Di-Clone bitches, and here's the manager doing the same to the merchandise at this dump, and he probably won't pay a dime.

"You like rough stuff?" I asked. I always ask first.

"Love it," she said. She leaned toward me in a sexy way, and I could see down her blouse. She really did have great tits.

She also had a rash. I could barely see it, but it was definitely there. I don't fool around with bitches that have rashes.

"Yeah, well that's nice," I said. "But I prefer to beat the shit out of girls who don't like it."

I turned to the Indian princess. She was small and dark, with long black hair and big brown eyes. She wore a short leather skirt and an unbuttoned denim vest. Her tits were small but shaped nice. A silver pendant on a rawhide bolo hung between them.

"How about you, sweetheart? You like rough sex?"

She just looked at me and said nothing.

I grabbed the bolo and jerked her off the stool.

"I'm talking to you, bitch," I said.

"Don't hurt me," she said in a small voice. "Please don't hurt me."

It was a real turn on. She was going to be fun.

We was barely in the cab before she gave me the first blow job. I leaned against the door, and she went up and down on me. She knew just how to do it.

"You think this is gonna get you a bye on the rough stuff," I said, breathing real heavy. "Don't bet on it."

I shot off in her mouth, and she swallowed it greedily. I shifted, pulled her down on the seat and got on top of her. I wanted to hurt her real bad, and she knew it. Her eyes were closed. She seemed to be waiting for the first blow to land.

Then I thought, do I really want to blow another 2,000 F's? And if she ends up all beat to hell, what good will she be for the trip ahead? We was going to be traveling through dangerous territory, and it wouldn't hurt to have another set of eyes in the cab.

So I settled for a single punch to her gut. I didn't use much force, but it was enough to knock the wind out of her, and she moaned, which is a sound I've always liked.

I pulled her up, shoved her against the passenger-side door and slid behind the wheel.

"Yeah, we're gonna have some good times," I said. "That shiner your pal Honey Dew had was nothing compared to what you're gonna look like by the time we get to Memphis. That's assuming you make it that far."

I wanted to scare her. Actually, I was pretty scared myself. I wasn't at all sure either of us was going to make it to Memphis.

We slept at a rundown rest stop, me in the bunk at the back of the cab, her in the front seat. Least ways, that's the way it started out. When I woke up, just after dawn, she was curled up next to me. She hadn't gotten under the blanket, but I guess she needed my body warmth.

I looked at her sleeping beside me. She was fairly pretty, not all tarted up the way most Di-Clones are. She looked almost real.

She opened her eyes and made a little gasping sound, like she was surprised to find where she was.

"Rise and shine, Cherry," I said. I had decided to call her Cherry, instead of Cherokee.

I opened the door. It was cold outside. The sun was peeking over the eastern horizon, but to the west there was lots of dark clouds. I figured it was gonna pour soon.

I hauled out the propane burner and fried some sausages atop the only picnic table still standing. I showed Cherry how to use the coffeemaker in the compartment behind the bunk. I had a little refrigerator there, too, full of cheese and salami and beer.

She sat on a bench, with the blanket wrapped around her. She was shivering. I sat beside her and put my arm around her. I don't know why. It just seemed the right thing to do.

After breakfast, we stashed all out gear and I told her to get back in the truck. I walked a little ways on the highway. The sun was up, now, but there was no traffic. The road was in bad shape. Nobody had worked on it for at least a couple of years. We weren't going to be able to do more than 40 miles an hour. A shadow crossed the highway. I looked up. It was a Prankster, sizing me up. Looked just like a buzzard, wheeling around real lazy.

I hightailed it back to the truck. I didn't want it mistaking me for a Vandal and zapping me with a laser. Pranksters are real good at keeping Vandals off the Eye Roads, and for that I am grateful. But you better stay in your truck when they're overhead.

The rain started as we drove through the cave country. I'm told there used to be all kinds of motels around there in the old days. Tourists came from all over America to see Mammoth Cave and buy shit in tacky little shops.

We passed several exits with no sign of life. Finally, I saw a Federal police van parked under an overpass. I stopped for a chat.

"You the first truck I seen today," said a cop who was about my age. His partner looked twenty years younger.

"Yeah, it seems pretty deserted along here. Any trouble ahead?"

"Naw, it's all clear, at least to Bowling Green. But we got reports of some shooting north of Nashville. Where you headed?"

"Nashville, then on to Memphis."

"Well, maybe our boys will have everything cleared up by the time you get there. Whatcha hauling?"

"Propane," I said. I hoped they didn't ask to see my papers.

"Well, you better hope that fucker is bulletproof," said the young cop. "Otherwise, you could be in the middle of the biggest explosion Nashville's seen since . . . ."

"Yeah," I said, interrupting him. "But I don't intend to get my ass blown up. If they're going to stop this rig, they're going to need RPGs."

The young cop laughed. It was a nasty laugh. "Funny you say that. Vandals broke into an R.O.M. arsenal last week and stole a big bunch of shit, including grenade launchers."

If he wasn't a cop, I would have punched him out, the son-of-a-bitch.

Instead, I smiled and tried to stay cool. "No shit. You said an R.O.M. arsenal. What exactly is R.O.M.?"

"Jesus," he said. "Republic of Memphis. Haven't you heard? A whole stretch along the Mississippi River is now a separate fucking country?"

I hadn't heard. I knew there had been all kinds of talk about secession, about how the Federals couldn't hold things together anymore. But a Republic of Memphis?

And suddenly it hit me. If I was delivering to a depot in another country, how could I be sure I'd get paid? And what would they use to pay me?

"They got their own currency?" I asked.

"Sure do," said the cop. "Effective today. It'll probably be worth more than ours."

Then he looked past me and said, "Who's the cunt?"

I glanced back. Cherry was climbing down from the cab. I hadn't noticed before what a nice ass she had.

"Di-Clone from a truck stop near E'town," I said.

"She don't look like any Di-Clone I've ever seen," the young cop said. He stepped between me and her. Cherry tried to sidestep him, but he moved to block her. Then he grabbed her arm.

"Where you going, slut?" he said.

"Leave her alone," I said.

The older cop said, "Yeah, Fred, knock it off."

Fred twisted Cherry's arm behind her and pulled her against him. "How about a kiss, honey," he said.

Then he bellowed and doubled up. Cherry had kneed him in the balls.

He was on his hands and knees, gasping for breath. I looked at the other cop. The whole goddam trip just might end right here, I thought.

But the older guy just laughed. "You had it coming, Fred. Come on. Get up and get back in the van."

He helped his partner to his feet. Young Fred was wobbly, but he turned back to look at us, and it was about the meanest look I've ever seen.

"I'll get you one day, bitch," he said.

We drove on for a while in silence. Then I put my hand on her knee and said, "Nice job."

"Thanks," she said. She grabbed my hand and slid it to her crotch.

"I just hope you never plan to try that knee-to-the-balls routine on me," I added.

She looked genuinely shocked. "Why would I do that? You paid for me. That piss ant didn't."

Now I knew where we stood. I paid for her, so I got to do pretty much anything I wanted. As for her begging for mercy the night before, it was all an act. I had told the blonde I didn't like women who liked pain. So Cherry had drawn the logical conclusion.

As I massaged her clitoris, I wondered if she'd always be a step ahead of me.

# # #

The weather improved, but the road kept getting worse. I was worried about busting an axle, so I slowed to 25. That's when I saw him come running down an embankment to my right — a raggedy looking guy with a torn shirt, a skinny chest and an empty sleeve where his right arm should've been. At the crest of the ridge, I saw what he was running from: three angry looking guys with knives and clubs.

I downshifted, hit the brakes and had the door open before we was fully stopped. I don't know why, but I had decided that the one-armed guy was okay and it was the three who was chasing him that was the problem. That's the way I saw it, so I pulled my Glock out from its pocket in the visor and fired a couple of warning shots. Scared the hell out of all of them, the one-armed guy included.

So I yelled at him to get his ass in the truck. Cherry opened the door on her side and he started to climb in, fell back and tried again. He grabbed Cherry's hand and finally made it. Just in time, because one of the three guys chasing him raised a long-barreled handgun — a .22 target pistol was my guess — and started peppering the windshield.

Once the door was closed, I wasn't worried. Even a high-powered rifle wasn't going to get through this cab. We was armored, big-time.

I put her in gear and we was back on the road.

The one-armed guy finally caught his breath and said, "Jesus, thank you, guys. Those bastards was gonna kill me."

"What'd you do to them?" I asked.

"Nothing," he said, sounding hurt. "Well, maybe one thing. We was playing Ming, and I ended up with all their money. They said I was cheating, which is a pretty fool thing to say about a man with one arm."

I asked him what Ming was. He said it was some kind of Chinese board game that's popular in those parts. He said he learned it from his pappy.

While he was talking, I glanced over from time to time. Cherry was sitting between us, and he kept watching her. Even when he was talking to me, his eyes was on her.

"I'm Stumbo," he said. "They call me Give'im-a-hand Stumbo for obvious reasons. But my real name is Husk. What's yours?"

"Daniel," I said. "And this here is Cherry. Cherokee, actually. She's an Indian princess." I decided not to add that she was a Di-Clone. He'd probably figure it out anyway, and I didn't want to hurt her feelings.

"I ain't never seen an Indian princess," he said. "I thought all the Indians was on reservations out West, where you can't get to anymore."

"No," said Cherry. "There are Indians in Federal Land, too."

"How about that," Stumbo said. He didn't sound convinced.

We all got quiet, so I slipped a disk into the player. It was Aida. I generally like Rossini and Mozart better than Verdi, but I'm a sucker for Aida .

"What's this?" Stumbo asked.

"An opera," I said. "About an Egyptian slave girl."

"Slave girl? You mean, like, a fuck toy?" asked Stumbo.

I said, "Yeah, I guess so. Shut up and listen." So they shut up and we all listened. Listening to operas relaxes me. I usually don't know what they're singing about, but it sounds right. I'd listened to Aida thirty or forty times before, so I sort of zoned out, driving automatically and imagining what it was like in Memphis — the original Memphis, in ancient Egypt, with beautiful slave girls and jealous princesses and all that shit.

"Any of you hungry?" Stumbo asked, after a while.

"Yeah, I guess so," I said. Cherry looked confused but nodded. I think she had dozed off.

I pulled onto the shoulder and cut back on the throttle. I didn't want to waste fuel, but I also didn't want to have to crank back up if there were Vandals around.

The clouds had cleared, and it was warming up. I heard honking far away. It was geese, heading south. I scanned the sky for Pranksters, but there wasn't none.

"We got cheese and salami and mayo," I said. "Might be a couple of hardboiled eggs in there, too. And get me a beer, Cherry. Stumbo, get yourself one, too."

"I don't drink, Daniel," he said. "Don't drink, don't smoke, don't do speed or narc. My only vice is pussy."

He leered at Cherry. She handed me a beer and said nothing.

I kind of felt that, if I was a gracious host, I'd invite him to fuck Cherry, but I couldn't quite bring myself to do it. Besides, if he'd fleeced those guys who was chasing him, he had enough money to buy his own girl.

He must have read my mind, because he said, "And speaking of pussy, I got a wad of 50 F bills in my pocket and nothing to spend it on. How about I part with, say, 20 of them, in return for a little fun with the lady?"

I turned to Cherry. "What do you say, Lady?"

She looked down and said softly, "I do what you want."

"Deal," I said. I held out my right hand to Stumbo to shake on it, then realized my mistake and changed to my left. He shook it.

"What I'd like, Miss Cherry," he said in a soft, sort of purring voice, "is for you to do a little dance to get things started. Daniel, you got anything besides opera in that truck?"

"Yeah, I got a lot of chamber music, too, but I think I can scrounge up something a little sexier."

I popped a disk of Hindu flute music into the player and left the door open so we could hear it.

Cherry got up, closed her eyes and just stood there a while. Then she started swaying. Stumbo looked impatient, but I liked her pacing. Slow and easy.

The music got louder and faster, and she slipped her hands under her vest and began rubbing her breasts. Her mouth was partly open, and she licked her lips.

She'd never heard this music before, but she seemed to know just when to make the next move. She opened her vest and let it fall to the ground. Her tits were all rosy from rubbing them.

She unbuttoned her skirt and let that fall, too. Now all she was wearing was very skimpy black panties and her bolo. She slid her left hand down into her panties and began working on her pussy. With her right hand, she pinched her nipples. She was making little whimpering and moaning noises.

Stumbo couldn't take it anymore. He jumped up, pushed her against the side of the truck, and pulled down her panties. He shoved his hand into her crotch, then leaned against her and bit her neck.

She yelped but didn't resist. He unzipped his pants and began fucking her. He slipped out once, but she reached down and got him back in again.

It was all over in half a minute.

She was pressed against the truck, and he was collapsed against her, breathing heavy.

I didn't feel jealous, exactly, but I wasn't happy.

Finally, he backed off and told her to lick his prick clean. She hesitated, and he slapped her hard across the face.

I was about to bust up the party, but she sank to her knees and took his prick in her mouth. She cleaned him up, real gentle.

Goddam, she was a pro.

We finished lunch and were stashing our gear when Cherry looked back down the road and yelled. It was a bunch of Vandals, on bicycles. We climbed into the cab, and I got my door closed just as the first one reached us. He grabbed onto my big outside mirror and began hammering my window with a bicycle pump. I gunned the motor and let out the clutch. We lurched forward, and the guy on my side tumbled off. We rolled over two others. I was pretty sure there were more but I couldn't see them. Just then I heard the rifle shot. I didn't hear it ricochet, so they must have fired at one of my tires. Dumb shits didn't know I rolled on Haley's Honeycombs. Federal Army issue. It would take a couple of dozen shots before one of them went flat.

After I had covered enough ground, I adjusted the outside mirror, and damn if there wasn't another one, peddling like crazy, just a few yards behind us. I pushed down on the accelerator and we pulled away from him. Then there was a flash in the mirror and a lot of smoke where he had been, followed almost instantly by a big boom.

"What the fuck was that?" Stumbo said.

"Prankster," I said. "Too late to do us any good, but at least there's one less Vandal on this stretch of road." I opened my window and looked up. The Prankster was gliding off to the east. Just like a buzzard.

# # #

I hadn't asked Stumbo how far he wanted to ride, but the more I thought about him fucking Cherry, the more I felt it was time to get some things clear. Besides, we was almost at Briley Parkway, which was as close to downtown Nashville as I planned to get.

"Stumbo," I said, "we ain't talked about where you're headed. We're going to be just outside what's left of Nashville in about 15 minutes. Then I'm heading west, to I-40 and Memphis."

"Yeah, well, Memphis is fine with me," he said.

"But it ain't fine with me," I said. "I'm glad we could save your ass from your Ming-ding partners back there, and I'm sure Cherry is glad she could be of service to you. But it's time for a parting of the ways."

I kept my eyes on the road. I didn't want to see his expression. He said, "Sure, just pull over and let me out, I'll be okay." His voice was all pitiful.

"Is it safe here?" Cherry asked.

"Shit," I said, "it's not safe anywhere these days. But he'll be better off here than back in that pig-shit patch he came from."

"You're right," he said. I pulled to a stop, and he started opening the door.

"Just a minute," I said. "You forgot about the 1,000 F's you owe me. For Cherry."

"Oh, yeah," he said. He stretched out and reached down into his left pocket. I'm not sure exactly what happened next. I know he pulled his hand out and raised it. Then there was this hissing noise, and suddenly I couldn't see. Cherry was screaming, my eyes were burning, I couldn't breathe — and everything sort of just disappeared.

When I came to, the sky was almost dark. I sat up, felt dizzy and sick, and lay back down for a while. I heard someone moaning nearby. It sounded like Cherry.

I tried to get up again, and this time I made it. I was in the middle of the road. The truck was about 50 yards away, part way up an embankment and tilted at a dangerous angle. He must have tried to drive it away and couldn't handle it. It would be a bitch to drive with only one hand.

I heard the moan again, from a little gully beyond the shoulder. I staggered over and looked down. Cherry was lying naked in a pool of rain water, her hands tied behind her with wire — probably from my tool kit. I slid down next to her and began fumbling with the wire. She turned to look up at me. Her face was bloody and puffy.

"The son-of-a-bitch," I whispered. I got her hands freed and helped her sit up.

"Can you make it to the truck?" I asked.

She shook her head, no. "Carry me," she said softly.

I carried her. She couldn't have weighed much over 100 pounds.

I got the truck back down on level ground, and we spent the night in it. He hadn't stolen much. My first-aid kit was still there, and so were my emergency tools. The Glock in the visor was gone, but I had another in a compartment under the bunk, along with a sawed-off shotgun. That's where most of my money was, too.

On the other hand, he had cleaned out my refrigerator, and that was going to be a problem. I sure as hell wasn't going to buy food anywhere near Nashville. I don't like plutonium in my potato salad.

Cherry's vest was too torn up to wear, so I gave her one of my T-shirts. Her panties and leather skirt were wet and muddy but intact. Next morning, when we started out, I tied them to the mirror and let them flutter in the wind till they dried. Luckily, it was a sunny day.

Cherry was sore all over. She said that, after he gassed us, he dragged her out of the truck and slammed her head against a wheel cover. And while she was down and dazed, he had kicked her in the side. I felt her rib cage, touching her lightly. She said even the slightest pressure hurt, but I didn't think anything was broken.

"Why are you so gentle now?" she asked.

"What do you mean?"

"When you first took me in the truck, you said you would beat me. You would make me look even worse than Honey Dew."

It made me uncomfortable, her telling me that.

"Well," I finally said. "It's one thing for me to beat the shit out of you. It's quite another for some cheating son-of-a-bitch to do it for free. You more or less said the same thing yourself yesterday."

She smiled a little. I kissed her lightly on the forehead.

There was all kind of what they used to call "suburban sprawl" along the Briley. But if there were any suburbanites, we sure as hell didn't spot any. It wasn't till we were about 10 miles out on I-40 that I saw any sign of life: a Topaz truck stop with what looked like at least 30 rigs, along with a couple of Federal vans and a local sheriff's car. I checked my fuel gauge. I probably had enough to finish the trip, but if they had any hydrogen I might as well fill up. Besides, I needed some company. Cherry was a sweet little thing, but she wasn't worth shit when it came to conversation.

I parked on the edge of the pad and told Cherry to stay in the truck. Then I headed for the restaurant. It was noisy as hell inside, with honky-tonk music, and cigarette and pot smoke, and guys yelling back and forth. There a few whores sprinkled amongst them. Seems it wasn't just a restaurant. There was a small stage at one end, and at the other a bar, with beautiful bottles of whiskey on shelves. I hadn't seen whiskey in a long time.

I found an open spot at the bar and ordered a Bourbon, double and straight. "What kind?" the bartender said. "Cheapest you got," I said, and right away regretted it. What the hell, I had 28,000 F's in the truck. I could drink what I damn well felt like.

But I was too late. The kid had poured me a pretty stiff one. I finished it in three gulps. It burned, but it felt good.

I asked the guy on the stool next to me where he was heading. "Nowhere now," he said. "I was supposed to be going to Memphis, but I'm like the rest of the drivers here — fucked by politics."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"Ain't you heard? The Federals aren't letting anything through to Memphis till this secession shit gets cleared up. They've set up checkpoints. They're clearing trucks carrying food, but no fuel and nothing that can be used to make weapons or ammunition. Not even fertilizer."

What about FuckFoam, I wanted to ask, but just then the crowd started hooting and clapping. I looked over to see what was going on. A short bald guy with a black bow tie was on the stage, holding a mike.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he said, then he paused. "Actually, there ain't a lady in the house, and none of you look like gentlemen. So how about this — hookers and rednecks, we got a special treat tonight. Thanks to the kindness of a benefactor who will remain nameless, we're got a 1,500 F prize for whoever's left standing at the end of our " — he paused again, letting the suspense build — "catfight festival!"

"God, I love this," said the guy next to me.

Two hookers came up on the stage. They were standard Di-Clone: big tits, big hair, big lips. One was a blonde, the other a redhead. They both wore glittery bikinis. I tried to get the bartender's attention for a refill, but he was focusing on the stage.

A big cheer went up, and when I turned back to the catfight, the blonde was doubled up, and the redhead was smiling and waving at the crowd. Then the blonde came up from behind and slugged her in the back. Then they both went down, and I couldn't see over the guys in front of me.

"Fuck it," I said to myself and headed for the door. Just then two dudes came in. Between them was Cherry. She looked scared.

"What the hell you doing with my girl?" I yelled.

"Your girl!" one said. "Little tramp was wandering around the parking lot, looking lost and lonely. We figured to give her some company."

Several other drivers and a cop joined us. I thought the cop would straighten things out, but instead he said, "She's just what we need. When these girls onstage are finished, we can toss this little piece of ass to Big Lil."

Everyone started laughing — everyone but me and Cherry.

"Why didn't you stay in the truck?" I yelled to her.

"I was scared," she said. I could barely hear her.

Then they started hauling her toward the stage. I tried to get to her, but three guys held me back.

The first fight was over. I saw the loser, the blonde, staggering through the crowd and out a side door. Her face was covered with blood.

The cop went to talk to the bald guy, then pointed to Cherry. The bald guy beamed. You could tell he was real excited.

They pushed Cherry up onto the stage. They had stripped away her T-shirt and skirt. All she was wearing was her black panties. The crowd liked that.

The bald guy had the mike again, and he called out, "The gods have looked with favor on tonight's festivities. They have sent us this lovely little slut as an offering to our reigning champion . . . . Big Lil!"

At that the crowd let out a mighty cheer, and I got shoved aside as three big men made their way to the stage. Actually, as I quickly realized, it was two big men and one enormous woman.

Big Lil lived up to her name. "Jesus," I said, "she must weigh three hundred pounds." One of the guys holding me said, "You're way off. Try three sixty-five."

"Hey, stop this," I yelled. "This ain't fair. Cherokee ain't but a third this bitch's size."

"Cherokee!" the emcee said. "Yeah, of course. I knew there was something about you, honey. You're a fucking Injun."

Scared as she was, Cherokee's eyes flashed and she cried, "Indian princess!"

Just about everyone seemed to think that was funny. But Big Lil, who had just climbed onto the stage, looked bored. Well, at least she would get this over with quick, which was the best I could hope for poor Cherry.

Two guys pushed Cherry forward till her tits were touching Big Lil's belly. Cherry looked up at her with as cool an expression as she could muster.

Then I heard the announcer say something about a clean fight, and suddenly Big Lil lunged. She was quicker than I expected, for a woman her size, but Cherry was quicker. Lil stalked her, and Cherry kept retreating, then sliding sideways when she'd reach the edge of the stage. Lil lunged again, and this time Cherry went off the edge and tumbled into the crowd. A man and a hooker grabbed her and threw her back onto the stage — and right into Lil's waiting arms.

Cherry struggled, but Lil's bear hug would have been hard for a strong man to break. The crowd was chanting, "Squeeze her, squeeze her, crush her ribs."

Cherry was growing weaker. She tried to claw at Lil's face, but Lil shook her like a rag doll. When the shaking stopped, Cherry's arms hung limp and her upper body and head had fallen backward. I could see her face hanging upside down. Her eyes was half shut, and only the whites showed. Spittle dripped across her cheek.

Lil let her go, and Cherry's body fell with a thud to the wooden floor. Then the big bitch turned and blew kisses to the crowd. She was so happy, she actually looked kind of pretty.

A man picked Cherry up, slung her over his shoulder and disappeared through the side door, along with three or four others. I tried to break free and follow them, but someone hit me hard in the stomach. When I tried to straighten up, he hit me again, this time in the head, with a beer bottle.

I lay there a while as the crowd cleared. Then, after about half an hour, when I felt strong enough, I got to my feet. I managed to make it to the side door, but I waited a minute before opening it. If I was going to have to fight, I wanted to be ready.

But there wasn't going to be any fight. The men were gone. Cherry lay on her back, on the floor. She was naked. Cum oozed from her crotch and her mouth. I knelt and pressed two fingers against her neck. She was alive.

For the first time that I could ever remember, I cried.

There wasn't no doctor or hospital nearby. I asked; they just laughed. But one guy who was halfway human said there was a clinic in Dickson, about 25 miles away. Just get off at State Road 96 and head west, he said.

We got to Dickson past midnight. Everything was dark. If there was a clinic, I sure as hell didn't know where it was. I pulled into the parking lot of a small shopping center, checked to see if Cherry was still alive in the bunk, then made myself as comfortable as I could on the front seat and went to sleep.

(To be continued.)