Predator Press
[LOBO]
[I know you don't hear this from me often. But when I say it I mean it: This is a TRUE STORY.]
One of the major problems with working for
Swift Transportation was constantly being misinformed of delivery times. I have a hard time "relaxing" until all the work is done, so I would often find myself days ahead of schedule and with little to do.
So with sixteen hours to kill in Memphis Tennessee, I had done everything. All my laundry was clean, I was fed, showered, had fueled up, gathered supplies, and detailed the inside of my truck. My truck was usually filthy on the outside, but the inside of my sleeper cab --cleaned daily-- was immaculate in contrast.
So out of boredom, I'm uncharacteristically wandering around a truck stop. They are hidden cities unto themselves. And at night, while hundreds of subdued deisel engines idling as the drivers sleep, the ground seems to shake in the face of the awesome slumbering horsepower.
An arcade provided some amusement for a while. But eventually I decided to get some postcards and retire to my cab writing my friends back home.
Nancy was the cashier. She was about 25 and absolutely stunning: the kind of girl that takes great effort to politely not outright
stare at. Her pastel flowery-patterned blouse seemed to want to burst, and the exposed midriff showed a sexy, tight belly. A form-fitting slitted skirt accented her curvy hips, and her shapely, long legs suggested both grace and athletic prowess.
She was, in all simplicity, truly magnificent.
So I'm making all the postcards dizzy, spinning the display stand and plucking out this and that. It's a running gag that, no matter where I am I always sent postcards of girls in bikinis that you can essentially get anywhere. "Dear Tammy," it might say. "Niagara Falls is beautiful, but check out these
hooters!".
But against type, I do grab some scenic stuff every now and then. Setting a small pile on the counter, Nancy chattily rings me up. She's very nice and outgoing, and has a sexy southern belle accent. Before long, we've been laughing and talking for about twenty minutes in the empty store.
Leaning against the counter, she flips through my postcards. I've never been to Memphis before, and the way Nancy is selling it to me, there's all kinds of stuff to do and see normally. But unfortunately, it's like two in the morning. Suddenly she flips a card at me. "Hey!" she smiles. "This is a lookout point about two miles from here. Want to see it?"
"Sure," I says. "But I have this massive truck that makes for lousy sightseeing."
Nancy looks at the clock. "Well, I get off in a few minutes. We could go in my car."
I'm starting to like Memphis.
A
lot.
***
Small talked soon trailed off as we looked down over the dark highway. The overlook was completely empty, and the warm, starry night seemed to draw us together as we sat on the hood of her car. Playful touching evolved into a tangled embrace, and then into a savage
heat. Soon I was in her hand and she worked me with such an animal ferocity, I was concerned I might be
injured with one false move; I was ready in mere seconds, and she knelt to "finish" with her mouth.
I set her on the hood of the car, and she complied willingly as I opened her long, lovely legs. Tilting her hips forward into my searching hand, she cried out softly at the contact. I pushed her on her back, and worked my way down her belly.
Her hiked skirt revealed moist, white panties that conformed tightly to her every curve. I could not wait for her to slip them off ... I put a finger under the delicate seam, and tore the panties away without effort.
I then proceeded to "return the favor" with a ruthless zeal I rarely enjoy, and her soon her pelvis undulated involuntarily to every subtle nuance my mouth could provide as she desperately clutched at fistfuls of my hair. One arm holding her convulsing thigh over my shoulder, I worked on a condom with my free hand. And immediately after her satisfied cries began to subside, I penetrated.
We were like a well-oiled primal
machine.
I didn't even see the headlights pulling into the lookout.
Nancy starts abruptly, and pushes my off. "Quick!" she says, sitting up and buttoning her blouse.
My pants are around my ankles.
Despite my haste, Officer Jones got a full moon.
***
We went over everything in detail as he went over our IDs. Officer Jones picked up Nancy's panties on the end of a pen, and she flushed as she insisted I was not an attacker. The Officer seemed to delight in make her squirm over it, but at long last he lets her go.
I'm thinking he just wants to humiliate us --massive prick that he is-- but based on this he'll let me go
too at some point. Now she's gone and I'm two highway miles from my truck with no
ride. Oh Officer Jones, you're a disciplinarian
scream, aren't you?
Officer Jones' obvious disgust with me has multiplied considerably just because I'm from out-of-town. But when he finds out I'm a
trucker, he ramps it up even more. "Just what kind of name is '
Curr' anyway?" he demands. "Sounds like some kind of Polack Punk name to me."
He starts to read me my rights.
And I'm completely
shocked.
***
So. For the first time in my life, I'm handcuffed and in the back seat of a patrol car, heading for an overnight stay in jail. I'm booked, fingerprinted, and sent to a holding cell, all the time cooperating with them on a level that borderlines
ridiculousness. "Yes sir, No sir" all the way, hoping that at
some point, cooler heads will prevail. Someone will stand up and say, "this guy is in jail for
what?" and we'll all laugh about the over-reaction. Maybe even give me a ride back to my truck.
None-too-gently I'm shoved into the holding cell containing Remmy, the drunken Elvis impersonator. I'm tired, and I could sleep. But Remmy has an axe to grind, and he's banging stuff and shouting obscenities at the cops. I lay on the "bed" --worrying helplessly about lice-- and cover my eyes with my right arm, "tuning him out".
Now, one of the "traits" you pick up as a truck driver is the ability to sleep on
demand. Anytime, anyplace. Even in hostile and noisy conditions, within seconds you're snoozing.
I woke with Remmy seizing my shirt at the chest, screaming.
Hot, awful breath.
Shock.
My "lizard brain" kicked in, and I knocked out one of his front teeth. I hit him so hard, I would find out days later I broke my third knuckle.
Both of us are sent to separate cells, hands handcuffed behind our backs.
I slept like a baby while Remmy sobbed and moaned.
***
My court appearance was for nine-fifteen in the morning.
I'm irritated. Unshowered. Would have shaved.
Whatever.
Sure, I'll admit it was dumb. Yeah, theoretically it was
possible for a family to have pulled up rather than the cop --at two-thirty in the morning-- scarring the googly eyes kids forever with the sight of my pasty butt.
But there
was no victim here.
And while I politely wait and hope for common sense to rear it's head, it never
does; with a life of it's own, it was already moving under it's own momentum.
I'm actually going in front a
judge for this Barney Fife bullshit.
They call my name.
***
"Mr. Curr," says the judge in a thick, southern drawl. I'm waiting for more ethnic slurs. "You stand hea in Mah courtroom accused of Public Indecency, Lewd Conduct, ... "
Yeah, yeah, upsetting the precarious balance of your precious little world ... go on ...
He flips through the stack of police reports with obvious disinterest. Doesn't even look at me. "How do you plead?"
I don't miss a beat. "
Lucky, Your Honor."
The courtroom, fifteen or twenty studious-looking stiffs, bursts into suppressed laughter.
Annoyed at the decorum breach,
now he looks at me. Down his nose, through his glasses, like I'm some alien enigma. I'm thinking I'm the first human being those eyes have seriously
looked at in weeks. "Mr Curr," he repeats blandly. "Are you aware that if you are found guilty of these charges, you will be registered as a sex offender?"
Now,
sidebar: I didn't really know what all that
meant at the time. In fact, I'm thinking "sex offender" might really punch up my resume in some of the more uninteresting points ...
"Cool," I replied.
The courtroom laughs again.
The judge glares. "Where is your
accomplice, Miss--" he flips through the report. "--Stillson?"
"I don't know sir," I replied. "Officer Jones let her go."
The judge frowns. "He let her go." Pause. "Unfortunately, some of these charges require --" he parses his words carefully. "--a
companion."
"Judge," I says. "She's not a criminal. It would be completely unnecessary to--"
"I don't see any information on her in this report," he interrupts. I'm breathing a small sigh of relief. "Mr. Curr, this just might be the luckiest day of your life. I'm going to drop all charges on the condition that you
never, under
any circumstances, ever set foot within my city limits again."
"Deal," I says.
***
In the taxi, the driver insists that the newspaper is released in a few hours. And in spite of being "invited to leave", I wait three more hours hoping for a souvenier of such a bizzare experience.
The Police Blotter from that day should be framed on my desk.
... And someday, that story should be
told.
