The Killing League

18.

Truck Drivin’ Man

Horvath Trucking was a small-time operation, based outside Macon, Georgia. It consisted of a main office, a refurbished doublewide on cinderblocks, and a yard filled with at least fifty trucks and twice as many trailers.

Each driver had their own mail slot at the main office and Roger Dawson, fresh from delivering his load of steel cable, a load that had shifted several times and required way more attention than Dawson had been willing to give, walked up the steps to the office.

The secretary, a woman named Connie, was at the back of the small space making a photocopy when Dawson entered. She turned, glanced, and nodded at him.

Dawson looked at Connie but didn’t make eye contact. He’d asked her out not long after he first started working for Horvath Trucking. He hadn’t planned on asking her out, but it just slipped out. He’d fumbled the question and it came out awkwardly. He’d felt like an a*shole by the time he was done with the asking.

She turned him down flat. Practically laughed at him, like he was just another loser driving a truck. Like he wasn’t good enough to kiss her flabby white ass.

Later, he’d heard her talking and laughing with some other drivers and he knew she was making fun of him. Ever since, he’d ignored her. F*cking bitch. Oh, how he would have loved to hurt her. But he knew you couldn’t shit where you ate. So he left her in his mind, where he repeatedly f*cked her and broke her neck.

Now, Dawson went to his mailbox, grabbed the small bundle, made sure the paycheck was in there, and went back out to the yard.

In the sunlight, the air held a dusty haze from the dirt kicked up by the trailer trucks. Dawson felt the dust in his eyes, and welcomed it. He was a man of the dirt. A man of the Earth. He thought about his parents, those two always had dirt, and his father, blood, under their fingernails.

Dawson looked at his index finger. No dirt, but a little grime from the trailer’s electrical cables. He was good with his hands and made repairs to his rig most of the other drivers had to have done by a mechanic.

Dawson slid the tip of his finger beneath the folded part of a fancy envelope he’d gotten that had been underneath his paycheck. He’d double checked the front of the card, because he’d never gotten anything this fancy-ass in his entire life.

But there it was on the front: Mr. Roger Dawson. He smirked at the “Mr.” Usually only the lot lizards called him that.

He ripped open the envelope and pulled out a card. It read “Truck Drivin’ Man” on the cover.

Dawson’s thick brow furrowed. What the f*ck was this? He flipped open the card and read what was inside.

Mr. Roger Dawson,

Congratulations! You have been selected as a competitor in The Killing League. You were chosen based on your skill, viciousness, and the way you feed and care for Florida alligators! You are that rare combination of prostitute-killer and animal lover! Attached are your travel instructions and ticket. Unless you want your name, photograph and a description of the naughty things you’ve been doing sent to the police, you’ll join us. Good luck!

Sincerely,

The Commissioner

Dawson looked around. Had someone from work done this? Connie? No way. They had no way of knowing what he had done down in Florida.

No, this was some sick bastard. Probably another driver. But why? It would probably be about blackmail, Dawson thought. Well, good luck with that. What were they going after, his four hundred bucks in a savings account?

That had to be it. There was no f*cking tournament. Dawson carefully pocketed the card and papers. He walked back to his rig and climbed into the driver’s seat. This was bullshit. Why didn’t everyone just leave him alone? That’s what he always wanted, and all he ever asked for. To be left alone.

And now this.

Okay, Mr. Commissioner, he thought. I’ll go wherever you want me to go.

Dawson had a feeling whoever this a*shole was would have no problem ratting him out to the cops.

So he would go. But when he found this cocksucker, he’d have a little surprise for the bastard.