The Killing League

3.

Truck Drivin’ Man

The custom Peterbilt semi truck sat in its space, among the other giant long haulers, at a packed truck stop off I-75 in Florida.

Inside the cab with its extra large sleeping compartment, Roger Dawson sat behind the wheel, a joint between his thick, stubby fingers. He had the window down.

A boy in his late teens, wearing a short leather mini skirt and a tight black T-shirt, approached Dawson.

“You lookin’ for a date?” the boy said. His voice was high and girlish. Dawson looked down at him from his perch. The boy’s face was oily and dotted with pimples.

“You think I need one?” Dawson said. He had a pug nose, and his dark eyes revealed nothing.

“Doesn’t everyone?” the boy said.

Dawson handed the joint out the window to the boy. The boy had to step on the truck’s running board to reach it. He took a deep hit and handed it back to Dawson.

“You new here?” Dawson said. “Never seen you around before.”

The boy shrugged his thin shoulders. “Just got in from L.A.,” he said. “Where you headed?”

Dawson examined him.

“Turn around.”

The boy was momentarily caught off guard by Dawson’s sudden change in conversation. He did a pirouette, working to put his goods in the best light.

Dawson took another deep drag of the joint. The two remained silent for several moments.

“Well?” the boy said.

“Kinda skinny,” Dawson said.

“Not where it counts,” the boy said.

A small smile crept across Dawson’s face. He nodded toward the passenger side of the rig.

“Door’s unlocked,” he said.

•

Less than an hour later the young prostitute was on his belly, his head turned to the side. His eyes were wide and lifeless. His tongue was sticking out.

Dawson pulled the big rig over to the shoulder of the highway. He was on State Highway 75 - known locally in Florida as “Alligator Alley.” Just off the shoulder were deep canals, covered with vegetation.

Dawson got out of the truck, put the hood of his Peterbilt up and he stood in front of it, smoking a cigarette.

A car drove by, the only other vehicle on the highway, and Dawson moved to the other side of the truck, blocking any view of him.

After the car disappeared up ahead, Dawson opened the passenger door of his truck.

He looked down at the dead boy on the bed, inside his sleeper compartment.

“Time to feed the gators boy,” he said, and slung the boy over his shoulder. He walked down the shoulder of the freeway to the canal. He hoisted the boy up in his hands like a weightlifter doing a clean and jerk. He held the boy in both hands over his head then threw him deep into the marsh.

A loud splash and then the quiet of the swamp.

Dawson waited, smoking his cigarette.

When he heard a second splashing sound, he smiled as the alligators began to take care of his disposal needs.