by Kip Cassino
Willy Tasker was embarrassed, angered, and frustrated by Jethro’s utter disregard for him and the family business. On several occasions, he’d have fired the boy himself―if not for Cora, his wife. Since the deaths of Coy and Junior, her love for her remaining son had become his protective shield―as he well knew. As long as she lived, Jethro could do no wrong. Willy loved her too much to hurt her by sacking their worthless offspring. Instead, he made sure that upon his incompetence or death the company would be sold to a well-regarded competitor. At least he would not go to his grave worried that his life’s work would devolve to his useless child.
In the meantime, Jethro―who now styled himself “Tire Iron” Tasker―roamed the roads of central Georgia in a spotless class seven box truck, sometimes picking up freight, but more often than not just cruising from one truck stop to another. Wherever he decided to stop, mischief was likely to occur. “Tire Iron” had matured into a short, barrel-chested, heavily muscled man, and the namesake implement he always carried made him dangerous. Social convention, consideration for others, and thought before action were all alien to him. Sometimes his antics caused laughter among those around him. Just as likely, nervous smiles and frowns were seen instead. His contretemps with the Captain wasn’t unusual.
While the Captain’s dinner was being interrupted, Pauley found the small woman who had intrigued him through the restaurant’s window. He approached her slowly, careful to obscure the bad side of his face with the hood of his sweatshirt. As he grew closer, he could see that her own complexion was hardly perfect. Her harsh occupation, and the drug addiction that had led to it, had hardened and marred her cheeks and forehead. The heavy makeup she used gave her face a pale, stiff, masklike appearance. Still, she was handsome enough and retained a lush figure. Her brown eyes, the shape of her mouth, the way she wore her auburn hair, all reminded him of someone—though he couldn’t remember who. Right now, Pauley thought she was beautiful. He burned with desire for her. ”What’s … what’s … your name?” he stammered.
The smallest hint of smile flashed across the woman’s face. “Edna,” she said in a husky whisper. “Name’s Edna, shy guy. You looking for some action?” She reached out to touch his face, and pushed aside the sweatshirt’s hood. The sight, the feel of the left side of Pauley’s face made her gasp. She quickly backed away from him.
“Don’t go,” Pauley implored, frightened she would leave. “Please. I know it’s … bad.”
Edna Gilmer stood her ground, reached into her handbag, pulled out and lit a cigarette. The time taken gave her a chance to collect her thoughts and consider the situation. The man was a monster, but she needed the money. Her veins and mind were already screaming for their next dime bag of heroin. Even though that next dose would cost her less than a pack of the cigarettes she was smoking, she’d need more than two hundred dollars to answer her terrible craving before this time tomorrow.
Edna had known the ugly underbelly of sex since the age of ten, when she was raped by her Uncle Ray—a trusted babysitter for her unknowing parents. By the time she was twelve, Uncle Ray was gone, but not before indoctrinating her into an erotic education women far more mature might never explore. Her first exposure to sex had been frightening, painful, and abrupt. Still, in time she learned to enjoy and even desire it. Most men, she found, became dumb and compliant when confronted by a willing sexual partner. They rarely lasted more than a short time before spilling their seed, and even those who took longer seldom paid attention to anything beyond their own nerve-endings. Over time, her vibrator became a much more fulfilling companion than the men she’d encountered.
All of that ceased to matter anyway, once she discovered big “H.” By then, high school and some college were behind her, and she felt confident in her ability to control men and her ballooning narcotics habit. Now, ten years later, she knew she had been wrong on both counts. Her life was delimited by access to drugs. Her only remaining source for the money to buy her heroin was the men she had to force herself to service. She endured the depravity and cruelties some of them inflicted on her as though they were occupational hazards. By now dirty needles and other lack of hygiene had blemished her once creamy complexion, while her raw hunger for drugs had coarsened her mind and scarred her soul.
Even so, Edna maintained a full, heavy-breasted figure and an appearance that seemed pleasing in the half-light she preferred. She managed to dress herself appealingly, and still snared her share of johns. The one before her now would be safe, she judged—unlikely to lash out to hurt her. He was simply an ugly, frustrated man in need of sexual relief. She could accommodate him, if he met her price.
“You’re not pretty, but that’s O.K,” Edna said, drawing deeply on her cigarette. She decided to start high and see how far he’d try to argue the price down. “You got a Texas penny?” she asked casually.
“A what?” Pauley asked, confused.
“A c-note. A hundred bucks … you got money?” Edna asked, frowning. She wondered if this badly scarred man had ever paid for sex before. She decided he had not.
Now he understood what she wanted. “Yeah,” he stammered, “in … in my … pocket.”
She coyly beckoned with her free hand, quietly thrilled that he’d pay the extravagant amount she had asked for. She hadn’t gotten this much for her services since men called her on the phone.
Pauley began to reach in his pocket to hand her the money. “Don’t show it,” Edna murmured softly, “you never know where the cops are.” Opening her handbag as though to give him something, she carefully palmed the wad of twenties into it.
“O.K., then,” she said, smiling as she licked her lips. “What do you want, shy guy—slick or lick?”
Again, the demi-monster seemed confused.
“Do you want a fuck or a blow-job?” She whispered, stamping her foot in exasperation. The man was behaving like a halfwit. He actually seemed embarrassed.
“The first … I guess,” Pauley stammered.
“O.K.,” Edna said, nodding. “Where’s your ride?”
The man stared at her. He looked as though he might bolt and run away.
“Your ride,” Edna growled, “your truck. For Christ’s sake, you don’t want to do me out here, do you?”
Her new john seemed relieved. He nodded. “O.K.,” he said. “I see.” He pointed behind him, to a big flatbed. “It’s right … right there.”
“Then let’s get going, lover,” Edna sighed breathlessly. “I can’t wait to get you in me.” She brushed his crotch with her hand and felt it swell. This wouldn’t take long.
Without further talk, Pauley took her hand and led her to the SHF truck’s cab. Once he’d unlocked it and they’d climbed inside, he sat in his right-hand seat and pulled down his jeans. His already engorged member immediately bobbed to full attention. No foreplay was needed. Edna discarded her panties and lifted her skirt, then climbed to straddle his lap, quickly guiding his penis into her. She ran her hands up his chest and grabbed his shoulders. For an instant, both were transfixed with the pleasure of contact. He felt enormous in her, and she felt wonderful around him.
He cupped his hands around her naked buttocks, and began moving her slowly up and down, moaning softly as he did. She gloried momentarily in the feeling, expecting an ejaculation at any moment. He has to be ready to pop, she thought.
Moments went by, then minutes. His hands left her buttocks and moved to her breasts, freeing them from her clothing, gently massaging and pinching her nipples. Now heavily lubricating, Edna increased the length and pressure of her strokes, astonished to find his erection still building inside her. She rose until she had almost left the tip of him, then lifted her face to his. Holding his head in her hands she began to kiss him deeply, while still sliding energetically up and down the length of his impaling shaft. He lifted his hips to meet her ever-increasing thrusts. His mouth left hers to encompass and roughly suck one of her nipples.
A wave of unexpected delight ran through her. She exhaled sharply. This was not supposed to happen. Her bare chest began to display a spreading, reddening flush. Then coherent thought left them both, as each truly sought orgasm.
When he finally spent himself, it was some endless time after she felt her mind explode in climax. If he had let her, she would have stayed in his arms much longer. He was still hard, she knew—still capable of giving her pleasure.
Instead, he pushed her away and retreated to the driver’s seat of the truck. “I have to quit,” he said, still panting. He handed her more money, then hurriedly buttoned his jeans to confine his turgid penis.
“Sorry. I want you more, but I’ve got to go,” he explained. “The Captain needs help.” He opened the truck’s door and was gone.
Still aroused and dizzy, Edna rearranged her clothing as best she could, found and somehow pulled on her soon-soaked panties. Then she opened the door beside her and slipped away. The two would never see each other again as long as they lived.
Chapter 19
Kissy’s Love Your Truck Stop Parking Lot Macon, Georgia
December, 2017
“Tire Iron” Tasker ambled to the front of the SHF tractor parked in his reserved spot outside Kissy’s restaurant. He had taken his time, stopping on the way to buy a soft drink. He saw no reason to hurry. Most likely, the asshole he’d left inside didn’t have the sand to come out after him. Since the man had already said he’d move his rig, Jethro decided to let him off easy. He’d scratch up the pretty paint job some, maybe take out a headlight, and leave it at that—no reason to be overly harsh. Planting his feet, he held his namesake as though it were a baseball bat, wound up, and took a mighty swing at the truck’s left headlight. He missed and hit the front bumper instead—scoring chrome from its edge.
He shook his head and prepared to swing again … and screamed as his left arm was almost pulled from its socket. Someone had grabbed the tire iron, had ripped it from his hands. In the process, his left shoulder had been dislocated. His arm now hung uselessly at his side. Tendons had been ripped. The pain was enormous. Jethro turned, staggering, to see who had done him such harm. His assailant now struck him savagely with his own weapon, squarely on the left side of his head, right above his ear.
For a second, Jethro could neither see nor hear. A sound like a loud bell chiming travelled through his brain. Vision returned, but it was blurry and unfocussed. He stumbled away from the vicious blow, only to be struck again with equal force, this time on his head’s right side. His mouth flew open. Blood began to flow from it, and from his nose and ears as well. The ringing in his brain deepened, drowning out all other sounds. He began to slowly lower himself to the pavement. As he did, someone jammed the sharp end of his tire iron though his mouth and into the soft palate above it.
By now, Jethro was sitting on the pavement, leaning forward, his legs spread, propped up by the tire iron sticking out of his mouth, which he gripped loosely with his good right hand. Blood pulsed slowly from every orifice in his head, building a widening crimson puddle around him. His eyes were open and unblinking—but did not see. He began to emit a soft humming sound from deep within himself.
“I think that’s enough,” the Captain said softly.
Pauley nodded, amazed by what had just happened. “Will he … live?” he asked.
“No reason to wait here and find out,” the Captain replied calmly as he looked around. “Let’s get back on the road.” The men climbed into their truck’s cab, pulled away from Kissy’s, and left the parking lot. They were almost immediately out of sight.
Jethro remained sitting on the pavement in front of Kissy’s for about five minutes more, until the EMTs showed up to rush him to Coliseum North Side Hospital’s emergency room. “He’s got a pulse,” lead tech said, bending over his equipment.
“Yeah, but he’s bleeding like a stuck pig,” said his partner, shaking his head. “He’s lost a lot of blood. Maybe if we get that steel out of his mouth …”
“Better not touch that,” the lead tech advised. “Not ‘til the docs look at him. We’ll get him on the gurney just like he is. Put some compression bandages on his ears and nose.”
The men did the best they could. The youngest Tasker was in the emergency room within ten minutes. His tire iron was carefully removed from his mouth. Scans and x-rays showed that his skull was cracked and splintered by multiple skull fractures, and that his brain itself was swollen and bleeding from massive concussion. He was wheeled into the gloom of ICU to await the decisions of his conferring doctors. Blood transfusions and drugs kept him alive in the meantime. His breath came through a respirator.
“Can my son be saved?” Willy Tasker asked his doctors the next morning. By now, these included some of the best brain surgeons in the south.
“Your son is in no danger of dying right now,” the doctors assured him. “His blood pressure and heart rate have stabilized. He’s in an induced coma. We have time to carefully plan further treatment.”
“What can I tell his mother?” Willy Tasker pleaded. Cora had broken down completely when confronted by the sight of her youngest son—her baby—unrecognizable in the bandages that swathed his head, kept alive by machines. She was in the hospital as well, under heavy sedation.
“Surgery will be needed, Mr. Tasker,” the lead physician told him. “It’s really the only option we’ve got. Right now, there are fragments of your son’s skull actually penetrating cerebral tissue. Some are large, others tiny. They will all have to be removed. Then we must somehow treat his wounds and knit his skull back together. This won’t be one procedure, I’m afraid. It will be several. Even if everything goes as planned, sir, even then, your son may never regain consciousness. Even if he should, he may never fully recover. The trauma to his brain has been massive, perhaps irreparable.”
“Are there no other options?”
“None that might improve your son’s condition. If nothing more is done, he may still live a long time. Some people with injuries like his have remained alive for decades.”
“Have any improved? Have any recovered?”
“No, Mr. Tasker. All have remained as your son is now.”
Tasker wept.
The police met with Willy Tasker the afternoon following his son’s beating. “What’s being done?” He asked them. “Have the thugs who attacked my son been found?”
“It’s difficult,” the lead detective explained. “I’ll be blunt. Your son was a troublemaker. This time, he may have found more trouble than he wanted. We know Jethro assaulted a man in Kissy’s restaurant, but there’s no evidence that the victim confronted him later. By all accounts, he just cleaned himself up, paid for his meal, and left. We have a description, but it’s vague. Half the people in this room fit it. There were no eyewitnesses to the beating itself. It took place in the parking lot, beyond a row of trucks. The only weapon used was Jethro’s own tire iron. A full forensic team has been over the crime scene with a fine-tooth comb. No fingerprints or other evidence have been discovered yet.”
Tasker was shocked. “Are you telling me that these criminals will get away with this?” he cried. “Can’t anything be done?”
The chief of police was quick to intervene. “We’re doing all we can, Mr. Tasker,” he said. “The truck that left Kissy’s immediately after the incident was bright red, and its plates were from out-of-state. There were two men in its cab. With the help of the Sheriff’s Office and the Georgia State Patrol, we’re pulling over all the red semi-trailer trucks coming out of Macon. Have been since yesterday. If that truck is anywhere in Georgia, we’ll find it.” The chief didn’t add that red is a very popular color for big trucks, and hundreds are on Georgia roads every day.
“Catch them!” Tasker snarled, slamming his fist on the conference room table. “Catch them! I’ll put up a fifty-thousand-dollar reward for the men who bring them in! Catch them!”
Pauley and the Captain spent the night following the encounter with “Tire Iron” parked in the lot behind the Macon V.A. Clinic off Route 74. There was a café nearby, where they walked to have their dinner. The Captain was subdued, and hardly ate. “They’ll be looking for us,” he told Pauley as he drank his coffee. “A town perks up when something like this happens.”
“What … what can we do?” Pauley asked. Even after the shock of what had occurred, his spirits remained high. He had wolfed down the breakfast he’d ordered for dinner.
The Captain thought a while, quiet, before he answered his buddy. “We can’t do anything right now, Pauley,” he finally said. “The truck is bright red, with out-of-state plates. The cops must know that, but they may not know much more. My guess is that anybody in a big red truck driving through this part of Georgia will be pulled over for the next few days. We’re safe as anywhere right where we are. We’ll get to the V.A. tomorrow when it opens, get our meds, and see what happens after that.”
“You … you gonna ditch … the rig?” Pauley asked.
The Captain frowned, then sighed. “No,” he said slowly, “no, I’m not. Old man Staley put his trust in me, and I won’t let him down. On Thursday we’ll load the rig just like we planned, then go north and east on 520 until we’re through Augusta. It’s a quick run. If we can tie down the load early enough, we should hit South Carolina before noon. Then we’re home free. We can spend the night in Florence and deliver the steel in Baltimore right on time. If luck is on our side, we won’t find any trouble. Besides, the cops may get tired of looking for red trucks by then.”