The Broken Rifle
Copyright© 2024 by Old Man with a Pen
Chapter 12
“Drive?”
“Yes.”
“A stick?”
“Four speed and reverse.”
“With a clutch?”
“Yes.”
“Both feet?”
The look he gave her was worried.
“I don’t know how!”
“What?”
“I never learned ... the school only had automatics.” She was whining now. Every comment before this last was louder, more shrill than the one before. She was working herself to a tizzy.
In case you have never seen a tizzy ... she was on the edge of panic. Drive a STICK? Drive a loaded down four wheel drive VAN? With all those long poles sticking out the front? ‘I’ll spear somebody.’
She started crying and not breathing... ‘I’m going to be sick!’ She could see impaled spasming bodies shuddering out their last moments. Blood and entrails smeared across the windshield as they kicked and screamed ... and then she noticed something she hadn’t noticed.
“That hole in the windshield?”
“What about it?” He said.
“That’s my line.”
“12 gauge shotgun slug.”
The vision of blood and guts dripping from speared victims and smearing the windshield became one of said blood and guts on the windshield being one of the gory gook vacuum drawn through that hole and ... spraying...
ERP
“I dod id up by node”... ‘Oh ... I hate it when that happens.’
EEERRRPPP
“Maybe I better drive.”
“NO!”
“What?”
“This is all your fault...” except what she said sorta sounded like that ... but it was too involved with dry heaves, spitting and naaasty belches to make any sense... “You are going to teach me to drive thi ... this ... this ... monstrosity and that’s FINAL!”
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