Junction

[pink_silk_glove]

At the junction of US Highways 180 and 84 was Big 10-4 Good Buddy's truck stop and diner. With Texas State Route 208 just a few hundred yards over the tracks to the west and route 350 on the far side of town, 10-4's got a lot of traffic for being in such a small berg. At a population of a little over ten-thousand, Snyder lay about midway between the hustle and bustle of Lubbock to the northwest and Abilene to the southeast. The massive canopy of the commercial cardlock, a hundred yards from the diner, towered stark and skeletal, and the rough asphalt between was covered with rows of big rigs of all colors. Some sat silent and some continued to run their engines to power refrigerated trailers or cab air conditioning as their drivers snoozed off the last few hundred miles.

Town itself was just out of sight beyond the 208, leaving the diner smack dab in the dreary open plain. Indeed the walk to work was a bit of a trek, especially in poor weather, and the weather did anything in pleased in those parts, often changing on the slightest of whims from hot and dry to prairie storm to wind whipped dust and back again.

The dinner rush was on. Not only truckers ate there, but the grill was so popular, families from town often came for dinner as well, hauling the jumpy kids and half-out-of-sorts grandma to slide into a booth or surround a table and feed on the greasy grub. Through the large front windows, outside the wind whipped the sun scorched roadside weeds back and forth like gauge needles. Across the highway, there were a couple of buildings dwarfed against the ominous distant horizon, a store across the street with gas pumps, and some old shack that appeared boarded up. Beyond them was nothing but fenceless open grassland.

She'd been working there two weeks. It was her first job after graduation. Her face was one of bold contrast. Long straight hair, dyed black and shiny, framed her soft pale and smooth round face. Her bangs were neatly trimmed just above her black painted brows with a small silver hoop in the corner of her left one. Violet eye shadow was prominent but, remaining conservative for work, was not nearly as thick as she would otherwise apply. Matching violet lipstick graced her full lips. Needless to say, thick black mascara was mandatory for her look. With eyes large dark and brown, she scanned the tables for empty coffee mugs and made the rounds to top them up.

Dress code for work was black, and as such, she wore a tight black top with an understated high white doily collar and matching white lace trim on the short sleeve cuffs ringing her chubby arms, leaving the inked band of dark thorns with the sharp blue eyes and perky ears of the lurking black cat within visible on the right one. Her long pleated skirt was also black but certain angles of light revealed a deep violet hue woven into the threads as it draped over her wide hips. A thick woven fabric belt cinched her waist with a clunky rectangular buckle, accentuating her pronounced hourglass. Even in her black knee high platform boots, her stature was not tall. Perched upon her ample bust, her little gold name tag read 'HELOISE'.

Behind the counter she rinsed out the carafe and set it on the element to refill. The place was full of boisterous chatter and kitchen noise. The worst was the piped in whine of country music. Certain songs she could ignore, but she could never quite dull her nerves completely. It was just not her thing.

"Order up!" called Freddy from the kitchen window and she looked up to see the new array of plates ready to serve. Her feet were sore and her back was tired. She sighed and went to the window to check the tickets.

 

[WardenDios]

Truckers travel the veins of this country like a lone red blood cell delivering nutrients and oxygen to the organs and systems of the body demanding the goods they carried. Much like a red blood cell, he had no home except himself, his truck being the closest thing to it. If it were not for truckers like him that traverse the country delivering food, fuel, products, machinery, it would fail and die a quick death.

Russell “Black Cat” Gerber was a bear of a man despite his handle, and much like a bear was not solid muscle and had a bit of a soft belly, but hardly would be considered overweight. He'd spent most of his life as a long-haul driver who was an owner-operator and working out. He had dirty blonde hair falling as far as his ear lobes he'd sweep straight back and let it fall where it may. He had a hard face yet attractive to most women. A strong chin, straight teeth, and a roughhewn nose. All of this sat atop a wide frame on a body no taller than 5'10", but always seemed taller as he always appeared to lean forward like a predator.

Russell smiled as he saw arguably one of the very first trucker songs ever written came up on his dashboard from his music drive connected to his luxury cab's sound system. Music is what made his life go, which made the wheels on his rig turn and moved him from place to place all over these United States Highway and byways. Music was the only thing that soothed the savage beast he held inside. He began to croon along to the song, he could mumble the lyrics in his sleep and probably had.

Well I pulled outta Pittsburgh a-rollin' down that Eastern Sea board
I got me ten forward gears and a George overdrive
I'm takin' little white pills and my eyes are open wide
I just passed me a Jimmy in white I been passin' everything in sight
Six days on the road and I'm a gonna make it home tonight

His last stop was Yakima, Washington, hauling of all things goddamned apples. He didn't dislike apples, but it was boring ass cargo and other than losing a few apples to his cab for personal use, there wasn't anything that benefited or profited him personally other than what he was paid to haul. Russell didn't pinch something off every load, but if someone was hard pressed they'd notice a bluray player hooked up to his tv that he never bought, and a few other things that he had around his larger living space. He smiled as he sang the line about little white pills. Russell wasn't into drugs, but he did love no-doze and caffeine as a whole. Another item he'd lifted from a load was a primo coffee maker he bolted to the wall that ground beans fresh for every pot.

Yeah it seems like a month since I kissed my baby goodbye
I could have a lotta women but I'm not like that sort of a guy
I could find one to hold me tight but I could never make believe it's alright
Six days on the road and I'm a gonna make it home tonight

This was the part of the song he never agreed with, finding a warm woman in every port of call was just as much an addiction as his need for caffeine. They all thought they were special, and he did his best to remember enough about them, he kept a little journal stashed away in his safe. He was coming up on a place he hadn't been in quite some time and would need to flip through it to see if he had a name for his last honeypot here. Russell never saw the sense in having just one woman, there were so many delicious shapes and sizes and flavors, why settle on just one for the rest of your life especially if you never have time to stay with one long enough for her to learn to hate you and what you do.

Oh the ICC is checkin' on down the line
I'm a little overweight and my log book's way behind
But nothin' bothers me tonight I could dodge all the scales alright
Six days on the road and I'm a gonna make it home tonight

He sang the last stanza louder. 'Long gone are the days of getting away with that shit,' he thought to himself. 'Goddamn Grubberment made sure with all their regulations and oversight on oversight. Can't cheat those sons-a-bitches on their fuckin' taxes. So Russell took a little extra wherever he could.'

Yeah my rig's a little old but that don't mean she's slow
There's a flame from my stack and that smoke's some blowin' like its coal
My hometown's a comin' in sight if you think I'm a happy you're right

'HA! no longer true, no longer true!' he thought to himself. Russell had saved a bit from every year's pay for 10 years to buy the rig he called home now for the last 2yrs. You don't get much more top of the line than this baby. This rig was like an RV and an 18-wheeler all in one. He had an actual kitchenette with a small stove and oven and microwave, a nice big bed, a bathroom consisting of a shower stall, a dining nook, and a small spot in a corner he called the 'lounge' with a big ass massage recliner large enough for two men his size to sit comfortably, or as he learned recently, himself and two little bitches. It cleaned real easy too, that was a necessity.

Six days on the road and I'm a gonna make it home tonight
Six days on the road and I'm a gonna make it home tonight
Six days on the road and I'm a gonna make it home tonight

'Not quite six Dave, not quite six,' he silently spoke to the author of the song, Dave Dudley. Other than pulling over and sleeping or refueling, the last real stop he'd made was a few days ago. Being able to cook for himself on the road eliminated some of the need for stops unless he knew there was a warm wet one waiting for him at a diner.

Russell pulled over to the side of the road, which looked like everything he'd looked at for the last few hours and opened his safe which he had carved a spot out for in the cab wall behind a cabinet that he rigged to release and pull away from the wall. It was large enough to hold three pistols, his laptop, a couple of stacks of bills and his leather journal he'd kept since he learned from a far more experienced driver. He grabbed the journal and plopped into his oversized massage chair to look up who he was supposed to ask for and a general description and some small mentionings about the woman. He wanted them to feel remembered so they'd keep putting out, a trick he learned from an older trucker when he was a young buck. 'You don't gotta make 'em feel loved, only remembered.'

He flipped through the pages until he got about ¾ of the way through it. The GPS had reminded him it's the 10-4 Diner he was coming up on so he knew it was somewhere around there in the journal. "There it is," he said aloud to himself. His finger traced down and saw the name:

Janice Crenshaw, a cute little black woman who was in her 30's. Likes it rough and getting fucked in the ass; '50s doo-wop and rock from the '70s. He always had to know what their music taste was. He'd often plop a few bucks in a jukebox to get 'em happy and dancing once he was eating. They'd shake their ass and tits more for him when he'd ask for a refill or something else to eat if they were listening to what they liked. He set up a playlist of songs for later tonight based on her likes.

Russell put away the journal and threw on a clean black T-shirt with The Sex Pistols featured on it and relaxed well-worn blue jeans and a black hat proclaiming 'Dirty Hands Clean Money.' He left the truck, locking it, arming the alarm and kissed the crown on the top of the hood before hopping down to walk into the large popular diner. He found himself an empty seat at a table and stopped a tall blonde waitress and asked, “Heya Jill,” after reading her name tag, “Janice working tonight?”

“Janice got married and moved to Dallas, Honey, your girl will be with you soon; You're in Heloise's section. New girl, can't miss her, looks—there she is, the one over there” she pointed as she walked off laughing.

“Shit, no guarantee of getting fucked now,” he muttered angrily out loud to himself, his words drowned out by the bustle of the diner. A foul mood killing his excited lust he had knowing what to expect from Janice. He hated having to get to know a new girl. So much talking when he just wanted to listen to music and fuck. Russell sighed, resigning himself to having to try to feel out this Heloise or come back tonight for a dinner in a different section after he napped for a handful of hours before hitting the road again on the way to Littlerock, Arkansas to drop his load and move to his next destination to pick up another. He was ahead of schedule as per usual, having saved time by not needing to take as frequent stops as other drivers.

Russell looked her over as she walked up, mentally assessing her and noticing her platform shoes as he worked his way up her body, 'short, a little chubby, but nice tits and probably a bit of an ass at least.' He licked his lips, his lust coming back.

 

[pink_silk_glove]

Delivering the dishes to their customers, she returned to the coffee station behind the front counter, took the carafe and placed a clean one in its place to start a fresh pot. As she came around the end of the counter to make her rounds, she heard Jill mention her name. She had a new customer. The first thing that she noticed was the 'Sex Pistols' tshirt. Nobody wore that around here. This town was all flannel and hunting vests - the common mindless redneck uniform. The next was the self-assured presumptuous grin beneath the brim of his ball cap.

"You can have one of those tables over there," she gestured warmly, her small voice nearly a singsong, noting that he was a party of one and therefore shouldn't occupy a whole booth for himself at this hour, "or would you prefer to sit up at the counter?" she indicated with a quick nod of her head over her shoulder. Something about him made her blush. Perhaps it was that grin or maybe the look in his fleeting eyes, but she couldn't pinpoint what it was.

Reminding herself that she had a job to do, she snapped herself out of his fixation and dismissed it as she made her rounds, topping up coffee, her booty twitching atop diligent chunky legs as she went about. She stopped to bus a table. Then making a mental note to bring a rag on the next trip to wipe it clean, she returned to the counter, put the carafe back, placed the dirties into the bin and tossed the napkins. Then she washed her hands, dried them, and grabbed a menu.