Mother Trucker

From Old Knudsen: The Truck Driving Years, vol II.

It was back in the days when I was serial killing and driving a truck full of logs and sticks from the great forests of Albertie and Sasquatianie to all the branches of the Hawshaw saw mills.

Those days were tough and the nights were tougher and lunchtime wasn't no picnic either.

I drank to dull the pain of life and I smoked to make my breath and clothes stink and to hide my silent farting, years of ocean voyages had loosened my sphincter so much that never a squeak was to be heard.

When medical science improved I had my arse rebuilt and paid for on the NHS and now no one would ever know about the Doldrums or the roaring 40's (none the wiser are you?)

I pulled my semi - 18 wheeler chubby into a truck stop, it had seemed like I had never known anything else but driving my rig and mind and body were on automatic.

I trailed my feet through the snow past the cafe that smelled like bitter coffee and to the bar called the rusty bullet hole. I walked in and the smell of heaven hit me immediately, cigarette smoke, beer and vomit I could live in a bar that's for sure.

Surly looking patrons looked up from their glasses to eye me up, I didn't back doon from their gaze and returned their glare until they looked away, yeah I'm the alpha male here ya cunts I thought.

Only one didn't look away, a small well build guy probably with a chip on his shoulder about good lookin strangers knowing my luck. I knew trouble when I saw it and it usually came in small aggressive packages. The small uns always have something to prove.

I ordered a bottle of Whisky and a beer chaser, the barmaid was a tired middle aged woman with more make-up on than Ronald McDonald, her low cut top showed that her cleavage went all the way to her knickers, that's how I like em, saggy, low and not too picky.

I sat and drank, Bing Cosby and White Christmas came on the jukebox, fuck Christmas already, maybe I should swing over to Vancougar to visit my bastard love children, nah I'm the last person they want to see, a bunch of alcoholic, incestuous, small animal torturers anyway and if theres one thing I can't stand is a drunk.

I glanced over at the small guy who I could feel was still staring at me, he looked mean there was no way I was going to avoid this. My glance was all he needed, he jumped off his bar stool and walked over to me, well there goes my quiet night.

"Do you have a fucking problem pal?"

He hissed out at me, the barmaid moved away and the other customers found the floor very interesting. I could see his right hand was slightly behind his leg, probably holding a bottle to swing at me.

I grabbed my own bottle and swung, he countered with his and they clashed sending shards of glass into ours faces.

I tried to slip off my stool but felt his bottle stab my leg, no time to think no time for pain I blindly stabbed at his face enraged, my automatic warrior skills kicking in and I connected with something vital as blood pumped out of his neck with every heartbeat.

I knew it was over as he staggered back gurgling trying to breathe, the bar was now empty .

I grabbed a bar towel and pressed it to my leg and limped quickly to my truck, the cops would be out soon so I had to put some distance between me and this place.

The snow was coming doon heavy but I had to keep going, a belt around my thigh and a rag duct tapped to my leg (that was back when duct tape was coloured green) I sipped at my stash of laudanum, always a handy thing to have and I weaved around the winding roads impressed at my determination and true grit.

Do you have a fucking problem pal?

I stoped after a hundred miles or so and thought back to the small guy at the bar knowing he had to be dead and I wondered, why are midgets always so angry?

lucky he wasn't any taller or this blog would be called 'Old Neutered Balls' but hey it was a good fight the stuff of legends and he gets taller and meaner after every telling, yeah don't fuck with Old Knudsen cos Old Knudsen don't fuck .

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