Trucker
Static
- A young man, a student out of New Mexico State University named Tom Willikers, was gunned down this morning.
- Officers at the scene report that he had just had lunch with a friend when he was murdered in cold blood in front of the local library.
- Witnessess say they saw a hodded figure, clad in a blue and green tracksuit hurrying away from the scene shortly after.
- The police are looking fervently for the suspect and are asking the locals for any tips that may bring the murderer in.
- Close family and friends have gathered at his flat in halls, where the local parish church God's Glory have set up a temporary chappel.
- With me here, I have the pastor, who would like to say a few words.
- So, Pastor, what are you trying to do here?
- The church is a large part of this community and we, along with the rest of the town, wanted to create a space where mourners could....
Click
- I'm on a highway to hell,
- Highway to hell.
Recently deceased Angus Young's trendsetting, and seemingly immortal guitar riff set the speakers ablaze as the truck mowed its way down the interstate expressway. Headlights cut through the darkness, allowing the driver to traverse Florida state at the leisurely pace of 95 mph, a bit too fast for prudence. However, he needed to get the load - ten tonnes of fresh fish and another twelve of dynamite - to a warehouse in Santa Fe by tomorrow evening. He looked down and attempted to count the number of states he had to pass through on his right hand, which was resting on the gear lever. An accident two years past had left it weak and cumbersome. Simply lifting it to the level of his shoudlers was cumbersome. Sometimes it would ache and swell, making it hard and painful even to move it, but he had no medical insurance and he figured that truckers don't have all that much use of their right hands. He counted three fingers, and reckoned he would have to pass through Oklahoma as well.
There were no cars out here, he had just driven past the suburb of some semi-vast industrial shithole. Coming up empty when trying to remember the name, which he certainly knew as he had journeyed past it several times; often stopping at the roadside cafe with the blonde waitress with the red high-heels. The workers at the factories would commute to and from work in daytime, but the road at night was pleasantly empty. Flames. Some blue, some red, along with all the shades in between lit the rear-view mirror. They were surely some oil-type-o-factories, or maybe gas? The industrial site looked like a city of neon. Streetlights paved the roads around the enormous installation in sparkling white, not a car in sight. Above that another kind of light, eerie and artificial, took over coloring the bases of the large refineries in green, red and yellow in no particular order. Atop, towering above it all was the flames. Destructive and uncaring. Burning of the excess material. How much worth did those blue and red flames burn up each year? Disillusioned and sad all of a sudden, he fixed his eyes forward, back on the road. Black and desolate. Above the road loomed the sky, a pleasant blue, brighter it seemed than the dark here on the ground. Stars sat idly by, casting light now weary of travel on the United States of America.
Pliny Borgia
A woman entered. Clad in a black waistcoat and red heels she bowed down, touching her bare left knee to the tiled floor. It irked me that I could not see her hair, a black shawl covered her head. Only the base of her neck, white and slender, was visible. She rose and trudged on, accompanied by shallow breaths and the occasional light whimper. Watching her circumvent, and then approach the main altar I could not help wonder what would happen if I drove a 6-inch serrated blade straight through that fine neck of hers. What would she think then? What was she thinking?
The Cathedral Basilica of St. Francis of Assissi, aptly positioned at the end of the larger shopping streets of Santa Fe was reported to be one of the oldest in america. Cast in stone and masonry, complete with corinthian columns and a serviceable altar, it was a breath of fresh air compared to the stale and boring churches commonly found across this dreary continent. More reminiscent of the churches back home in Italy, though nowhere as close in design and artistic beauty. Dedicating it to Francis of Assissi was also rather stupid. A man, noble by birth, who cast all his wealth away to live more like Jesus, Piss poor and hazardously, would surely not approve of a grand cathedral – or basilica? – in his honor. Why the contractor had arranged the meeting here was above me. Never mind the church, why not have it in Oklahoma which had a decent airport allowing for easier access to the big cities, beyond which lay Europe and home. Safety and civilization.
I stood up and sighed to let all present know that I was bored, Italian and did not care. Checked my coat, a bit surprised to find it still on me. The tailor had been drunk and in a hurry, resulting in an all black attire a dozen sizes to large. I checked my breast pocket, found my pocket watch which told me he was six minutes late. A memento from my mother, the clock's exterior was in pure gold, red and blue carvings etched out the constellations. Inside was the watch of course, numerous silver tendants marking the star signs, months and days, and the time. Above it was the picture of her, underneath which was carved in latin “Semper in corde Meo”. Not exactly in my heart, but near it at least, I thought. Sweaty and Panting, the contractor entered, Now seven minutes late.
The Black Crown
Poor Simone. The youngsters laughed as she passed, fingers pointing accusingly in her direction. Heedless, she trudged on, pretending she did not care. Life had not offered poor Simone any favors. She was old now, bent by the years and ready for what came next. Providence had offered her even fewer. Around the block, people spoke of the black crown, old Simone in her grey and worn velvets. Her hair, what remained of it, was hidden under a black cap. Observant hoodlums, noticing how she never went out without it, had tried to steal it from her to disclose her horrendous locks to the world. However, poor Simone would rather have the world spared such a vision. She had fought the hoodlums nail and tooth for that cap. They gave up eventually, after a dozen or so lashes from her ivory cane, another permanent fixture to her person. The nickname they gave her afterwards however, stuck. Her black hat, her black crown. Poor Simone.
She had been a dancer once, working at one of the large casinos in Las Vegas. Young and full of life, the customers would often praise her looks and sometimes even asks her to join them for the afterparties. One night she would party with billionares, snorting piles of coke mounted on the head of dwarves clad as monsters. The next she would be in the private jet of exiting and foreign adventurers, making sex, love and all in between. That had all ended one fateful night.
Four miscarriages, a crippling money laundering accusation and an attack by dogs had left poor Simone old, broke and ugly. No one liked her, but she ventured onwards nonetheless, working at a supermarket 10 miles from her apartment which she co-rented with a bunch of no-good addicts and a Belgian student. She had worked there for 30 years, marching the entire 10 mile stretch every day. Both to and from work. She felt tired today, so she sat down on a bench next to the Bus stop which took eager tourists from the hotels on the periphery of Santa Fe to the center. She remained there, hunched over her cane, looking at all the passerby's. Some in exotic silks, some in expensive suits. One man wore a red-leather cowboy hat, whilst the woman behind was completely bald. The stream of people continued, after a while the figures started to blend. Shapes merged, until all in front was an indistinguishable blur. She grew tired and her mind - weary of the present – drifted off. Unsteady and swaying on her cane, she felt her consciousness slip away, rise upwards and blend with the stream around her. Like a steam of fish contained in a barrel. The last thing she saw, was her own body from above. It seemed life - or providence - had one more trick up its sleeve for poor old Simone.
