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The Last Scar

 

 

 

Three

 

Because he had exceptional luck hitchhiking, he arrived in Litchfield, Minnesota early on the evening of his release.

His first ride had been with a greasy farmer who stunk like the manure he hauled in his rusting truck.

He minded his manners and humored the old man by pretending to give a damn about the art of cultivating manure. Normally, he wouldn't have. He did so because he suddenly sensed the old man was employed by Rolling Hills and had only appeared on such a desolate road to offer him a ride. And to spy on him.

The weight of paranoia burnt and sizzled within his well endowed brain. There was no way in hell he'd let those intrusive bastards continue to play any part in his life. No fucking way in hell.

While the truck bounced and burped along, he was unaware of the quick tapping of his left foot on the floor board, an action caused by his singing nerves.

He waited until they crossed into Elmdale before he left the undercover manure cultivator, after graciously thanking him as any sane person would.

Carrying the burden of a thousand prying eyes with him, he moseyed through the backwater town like he didn't have a care in the world and headed down State Road 9.

Just when his tender feet began to complain about walking, a dusty, but new, Honda pulled to the shoulder a few feet ahead of him.

He jogged to the passenger window and peered inside, suspiciously. A gorgeous red head sent him a dazzling and suggestive smile.

Christ! This was definitely a test. No way a bitch as beautiful as this one would stop to pick him up in the middle of bum-fuck Egypt. Politely, he smiled back at her. In his mind, he laughed at the idiot doctors who were obviously trying to get him to fuck up so they could yank him right back into the stinky bowels of hell. Screw them raw. He'd already outsmarted the lot of them. He could certainly do it again--if he kept the ultimate objective of revenge in the front of his mind.

Bursting with confidence, he dropped into the comfortable seat. He then concentrated on ignoring the awesome shapes and curves of the driver as his feet sighed with relief.

Shit, he wanted to take her, violently, right there on the side of the road. But he didn't. Because of the bastards who were watching him.

Every time the highway caused her huge tits to bounce and jiggle, which sent his mind into dark fantasies, he called upon the demons living within him, the bodiless voices who drove him to punish the one who had caused him so much pain. They kept him focused on the goal and kept him out of trouble.

Finally, mercifully, the red head dropped him off in Cold Spring, sixty miles closer to his final destination.

With a silent thanks to his monsters for letting him pass another test designed by the dirty bastards at Rolling Hills, he hit the pavement again. 'Just put one foot in front of the other,' he sang to himself, fondly remembering the cheerful song to The Year Without a Santa Clause, one of his all time favorite Christmas shows. He'd loved it as a kid and loved it just as much now. 'And soon you'll be walkin' 'cross the floor.'

Not more than five miles later, a shiny new Cadillac stopped.

He smiled at the middle-aged brunette behind the wheel. Of course, he'd pass this test, too. His demons wouldn't accept anything less than a perfect performance.

Flowery perfume thickened the interior of the car and turned his empty stomach upside down. Still, he settled into the seat, grateful he was no longer walking.

This woman, Marla or Marcy or Marsha, absolutely loved to hear her own nasally voice. She yammered on and on about church bake sales, the PTO, her stupid kids and her worthless husband.

Because she reminded him of his over bearing mother, he couldn't resist gaining more than a ride from her. Of course, he still had to behave to some extent because of the nosy doctors spying on him.

Utilizing a slyness he'd perfected over the years, he eased his hand into her pricey leather purse, which set on the console between them. With the skill of a surgeon, he blindly located her wallet, opened it, and emptied it of the cash it held.

In Litchfield, he bid the gaudy bitch farewell as he slid the hundred and twenty dollars that had been hers into the front pocket of his jeans.

He needed to rest--the peaceful and deep kind of rest he'd been unable to find behind the locked doors of Rolling Hills. So, he rented a room in a neglected motel off Highway 12 and hit the sheets.

He slept like a sinless child until Saturday evening, almost twenty-four hours later.

While he slept, his madness quietly gathered. And strengthened.