...an excerpt from Peace River

chapter 5

Roadkill

In the dark and quiet wooded farms that stretch between Avon Park and Zolfo Springs runs Highway 64. Rob's Zombie's Dragula and a Ford Mustang's headlights bladed through the night. The stereo blared at full volume but the silence killed the man as he drove. He hated this most of all: when he was so wrong and she was so right she wouldn't say a thing. That kept her safe from incrimination to any degree and gave him nothing to pounce on. It wasn't so much her righteous attitude – even though she wasn't at fault - but her total neglect at even giving him a chance, an opening. He took a fast and full drink of his beer, he pushed the bottle out of the slightly opened window and slammed on the brakes before it hit the pavement. The car squealed and twisted to a stop.

The sound rang in the air and caught their attention, the smell of stalled prey kicked their salivary glands into gear. They moved in the direction of the vehicle.

"What the fuck is wrong with you, bitch!"
She didn't react. She couldn't. She had been through this before, it paralyzed her. Once out of fear, now out of loathing. He took a loud breath, held, released and got out of the car, slamming the door. He buckled down in anger, grabbing two lungs full of air, then burst up and howled, "Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck."

The scream was just ahead but they needed to veer direction for precision, the animals were closing rapidly.

He went around to the back of the car and yelled out to her, "Pop the trunk." Nothing happened. He waited another moment.

"Pop the trunk!" He wrenched his eyes closed, "Pop the Goddamn-"
The trunk opened. She let go of the latch and sat back. At this point she was just hoping to get home with no damage. It didn't seem likely. She readied herself for abuse, vowing never to allow him to put her in this situation again. He reached into the trunk, opened the cooler and grabbed another beer. He opened it, drank, closed the trunk and leaned against the bumper. He lifted his head to the sky and peered at the stars. He dumped the remainder of the beer into his mouth, catching most, swallowing some. He clodded around to the passenger side of the black Mustang and stood brooding outside of her door.
Drunken, he fooled himself into a state of composure. He leaned his back onto the car and reached back-handed to the door handle, clicking it open. She knew better than to lock it, she actually had unlocked it as he approached. The door jimmied open slightly. The breech had been crossed, the castle wall had been climbed. It would begin.

In a clumsy gallop they approached the edge of the woods.

Low and slow he growled, "Get out." No movement from within.
"Get out."
“I’m not getting out,” She squirmed with diffidence. “And I’m not going to say anything that winds up with me walking back.” She saw them break through the trees and barrel into the clearing near the road. The pack was no more than forty feet away from the car. They hurled themselves through the night right at it, moving silently in unison.
She tried to speak but terror caught her tongue for an instant. Oblivious to their presence, her soon to be ex-boyfriend raised his voice, on the verge of rage, “Get…the…fuck…out….of…”
His ridiculousness helped her find her voice, she screamed, “Turn around! Get in the car! Get in the car!”
“Not until I teach you a lesson.”
She locked the door. The first beast leaped onto the hood of the car and lost its footing, slipping on and then over the windshield and into the back of the man’s head. He was shocked at the contact but didn’t lose his footing, only bending forward as the animal fell to the ground with a yelp. The second one came around the vehicle, leading the rest. They were on him before he had a chance to move. He didn’t know how many there were; all he saw was dull, dark flashes of furless, rotting animal skin contorting above him. He felt the tears at his flesh and the ripping of his meat as he kicked and punched wildly.
She knew enough to sit silently in the car, hoping they would take their kill away and leave her alone. She could hear his agony slowly fading through the cracked window. A thought jumped into her head: the keys! She turned her head, they weren’t in the ignition, he had taken them. Shit, you asshole.
His bloodied arm rose up and hit the glass with a thud and a metallic rattle, she couldn’t help screaming. One of the things lifted its head from the feast and tilted its eyes toward her, blood dripping from its gnarled fangs. He had given her up to them. Or did he? She saw now he was holding the keys up to the window. She was just able to reach through the opening and pull the keys from his fingers. Thank you, asshole was the last thought anyone gave him while he was alive. His arm fell and became a meal.

...Dead I am the dog, hound of hell you cry

Devil on your back, I can never die.

She slipped over to the driver’s seat, started the car and screeched away. The animals continued consuming the scraps, there would be nothing left for the vultures in the morning.

The Thing That Worked Until Smart People Fixed It


The corp known as Rewsnork was in fiddles and fits,
As came the report from alow,
Financial comings were the quarterly pits,
And what was to blame for the woe?

Neither forecasts nor flurries did summon despair,
But beckoning came from bebove,
Demanding the answers: who, why, when, and where,
They had to explain, plus the was.

Not long ago the profits were zenith,
And earnings were socketing high,
But now at the fringe not far from the pith,
The specklers were widdling nigh.

Pockets were filled when business was booming,
Just when the stocks where at summit,
Yet square the obtuse disaster was looming,
And soon the interests did plummet.

The headlings with desks that were bigger than most,
Called between them a council that those,
Who had sevenfigs of a salary to boast,
Would be told not to miss nor repose.

No one without glated pens could attend,
And terms of the meet were kept guardly,
It was up to the men to make this divid end,
They were sure to work very hardly.

The findings they found pointed to a point,
That explained all the droppings indeed,
Such was an astounding thing to anoint,
As the cause of the terrendous bleed.

Once Smart people did think to dispel myth:
(And this is what made holders cry),
‘What’s not broken is fixed,
If only we think to and try’.

Rewsnork did make and sell one product well,
And that was the Tutuwanatee,
But before the tumble, before earnings fell,
The Smart people decided it weighty.

They declared, “It needs fixing!” and raised it aloft,
Not one of them wasn’t not speaking,
“Here it’s too hard” and or “Here it’s too soft”,
“The Tutuwan requires tweaking.”

“This creation of ours should be newer then older,”
Did one of the Smart people pundit,
Project Phixit was born and marked on a folder,
“And the Money Department will fund it!”

“It’s too simple and smooth to go fast and not slow,”
Offered an unsuperqualivised Smart,
“Give it the this or the that or the other thing, no?”
Having no knowledge or name for a part.

One Smart like a surgeon called out for a nurse,
Beckoned and begged for a hatchet,
This Smart twiddled and tinkered, not very terse,
Tight-loosened, twerned and did ratchet.

Then there was expert who called himself thus,
Who stuck on the ‘Wanatee throttle,
He added a widge, a trank and a truss,
And changed it less little than lottle.

The Smarts sat back and looked and listened and were,
Surprised to hear the contraption,
Which once made a whirr a lot like a purr,
Now crankled and spurtled and blachened!

It fell to the ground and went all berserk,
And the corp known as Rewsnork went with it,
For this was the thing that successfully worked,
That was until Smart people fixed it.