The Highway Zone (546 hits)
Category: HumorRating: -1.5 on 10 reviews (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by <sizzlemctwizzle.at.yahoo.com> (View user info) at 2005-11-03 20:45:14 EST
The Highway Zone
By Michael Medley
Disclaimer: All people, places, and scenarios in this story are fictional and are solely figments of my imagination. Any correlation with real people, places, and scenarios exist only by accident.
You may think truck driving is the most boring job. You drive non-stop day after day staying at dive motels and rest stops. But many strange things can happen out in the middle of nowhere. Prepare, for you are now entering the Highway Zone.
Floyd Jefferson was just another truck driver shipping his goods from California to Texas. It was about twilight when he was driving in Arizona when he saw a sign saying he was on Highway 192. This was impossible; he remembered what the other truck driver had said at the rest stop. He was a blind one-eyed man named Lynn Smith, "There ain't no Highway 192, but some times an exit appears out of nowhere. The road leads straight down to were the moun-tains should be. There's roomers though that it's a highway down ta... ya know."
"You mean... "he said stunned.
"Yeah, to the land over burning fire. They say it's hot like surface of the sun and fire falls from the sky. And all those poor souls try everyday to make it up here, but only a few do."
"That's terrible," said Floyd, "I hope I'm never sent down there."
"Just be good and ya'll never have to go there, and if you do end up on Highway 192 never turn around because then ya'll never come back. Because Highway 192 is the Highway to....Mexico."
Now he was getting very worried, but remember that he shouldn't ever turn around. Far-ther and farther, he drove, and then out of nowhere he saw a veiled figure standing on the side of road. He decided to pull over, and see who would be standing out in the middle of nowhere. "So what's with the creepy veil, what are ya albino," said Floyd.
"Oh no," said a soft womanly voice, it seemed familiar, "That's foolish, don't say that, that's foolish."
"Do you have a name?"
"Jackson."
"Any first name Mr. Jackson?"
"No."
"Okay," he said suspiciously, "Your not related to Michael Jackson, are you?"
"Oh no, that's foolish, don't say that, that's foolish. I was wandering if you could give me a ride. You may know my uncle Andrew," he held up a twenty.
"Are you trying to bribe me with $20? For all I know you could be a fugitive on the run from the law." Jackson then fanned it out to reveal well over 80 of the bills (incase your bad at math that $16,000, and he carries that around in his pocket).
"Well nice to meet you Mr. Jackson. Would you like a lift," said Floyd.
"Sure, I would like that. Thanks for being so kind. You're a very nice person." Jackson was now in the passenger seat as they continued to drive down the road.
"So," said Floyd, "What are you doing on Highway 192 at this late at night."
"I don't travel during the day," said Jackson beneath the veil.
"Why, are you running from someone," asked Floyd.
Jackson hesitated for a second. "Oh no," said Jackson as if it was the dumbest thing in the world "That's foolish, don't say that, that's foolish. Don't hurt me with those unkind words. Why would you say that? I thought you were my friend."
"Whatever," said Floyd.
Two dark figures with Ak 47s stood in the middle of the highway. About a mile off the road stood a huge fort that looked like a terrorist training site. Once again, Floyd stopped the truck to talk to the men.
"Hello I'm Tom Mohamed Al Hussein Bin Laden, you got the goods," asked one of the terrorist in a hooded uniform with some strange symbol on the front.
"Uhh...maybe," said Floyd hesitating.
"Cause if ya don't were goin' ta have ta shoot ya," said the other terrorist.
"Yeah, we got the goods," said Floyd quickly.
Slowly he drove off the road toward the terrorist training site. Surrounding the building was a barbwire fence. The guard at the gate led them to a huge warehouse. "Okay, Mr. Jackson, I really want to get out of this without any holes I haven't got already (incase you didn't get that one, bullet holes). I'm goin' ta stop the truck right here. I want you to talk to the guard and dis-tract him."
"Why, where are you going?" said Jackson.
"They probably have bombs in there. I'm goin' to blow them up and probably this entire compound," said Floyd looking all around him.
"Oh, no that's foolish, don't say that, that's foolish, they're going to help us."
"In case you haven't noticed those men were all holding Ak 47s."
"You shouldn't judge people like that, just because they're wearing guns and part of a terrorist training site in the desert doesn't mean they're going to hurt us. I have a gun, and I'm not going to hurt anyone."
Floyd looked at him strange. "Look, if they try to find me shoot them with that gun of yours."
"Oh no, that's foolish, don't say that, that's foolish, I couldn't do that, that's mean."
"Okay, if you're not going to use it, give it to me." Jackson then pulled out a revolver from under his veil, for just a second Floyd saw his skeleton like, pale face, quickly he readjusted the veil and handed the gun to Floyd.
Inside the warehouse were crates and crates of guns, explosives, artillery, and grenades. Floyd walked over to a box marked bombs. Inside was a huge hundred pound time bomb. There was a red button on the top labeled press to start. Slowly Floyd pressed the button, which lit a LCD screen and started a countdown. Quickly he ran out of the warehouse, shot the guard in the leg, and drove away running over another guard in the process. "That wasn't nice, you shouldn't have done that," said Jackson. Once he reached the road, he shot the two terrorists standing on the road. Suddenly a huge explosion erupted behind them. The remains of a terrorist uniform fell in front of the truck.
"I think we should pull over and go nighty night," said Jackson.
"No," said Floyd, "There's only one bed in the back."
"That's okay, we can share it!"
Floyd continued driving.
"Do you mind if I sing," asked Jackson, "It helps me express my feelings."
"Sure," said Floyd spacing off.
Jackson began singing:
Killer
It's late at night and you hear people screaming.
Then suddenly you hear him laughing.
If you wander what's goin' on,
Just listen to this song.
He's a killer,
He killed them with a bomb.
He's a killer,
He killed a guy named Tom.
(Courtesy of Mr. Jackson)
"That's it," said Floyd annoyed, "I can't take this no more!" Crack. Floyd punched Jackson right in the gut, knocking him and the passenger side door into the night. A limousine drove up and two Islamic Leaders picked up Jackson still imbedded in the door and tossed him in the back of the limousine. "I always hated that song," said Floyd looking at the place the door had been ripped clear off.
It was early in the morning and no matter how far Floyd drove the landscape remained, the same dull nowhere. His odometer showed that he had only traveled ten miles since he had found his way on to Highway 192. How could that be? He had traveled all night, that would make it over five hundred miles. In the distance, he saw two southern looking men holding a sign that read Weel woorc fer Whitsceey. At first, he didn't have a clue what in the world the sign said, and then he realized they were hicks that had poor spelling skills. He decided to stop (he needed a laugh).
"What does that sign say," asked Floyd talking to the men out of the place where the door used to be.
"We'll work for whiskey," said a drunken man wearing overhauls.
"I don't have whiskey, but I have a six pack in the back. I'll give you a lift, if you want," said Floyd.
"My mama always told me never to talk ta strangers, but you ain't no stranga, you a truck driver," said the other tall red headed man.
The two men climbed into the truck and went straight to the beer. "So, how did you boys get out in the middle of nowhere," asked Floyd once they were happily drinking a can of beer. Alcoholics, he thought.
"I don't know," said the one in overhauls, "I was driving ta town in my pickup to get some more whiskey, when out of nowhere there was a bright light and the next thing I know I was standing on the side of a road in nowhere. And that's where I met Semis. By the way, name's Fred and I'm from Alabama."
"And I'm from Mississippi," said the hick Semis, "I was sleeping and I woke up here. All I 'member was something that looked like a gaint pie plate and little gray men with huge heads. Hey, how come ya truck only got one door? And what's with this revolver on da floor?"
Floyd was completely spacing off the two, as he was looking up the highway. There was a sign about a hundred feet in front of them. You Are Now Entering Area 71(gas station).
"So what ya got in the trailer," asked Semis.
"Oh," said Floyd, "I don't know, I just haul it. Truth is I don't even know where I am. I got on the wrong road and now I'm driving to see if I can find an exit to get off it. But, I haven't seen an exit for over a hundred miles."
"Pardon me if I sound stupid, my mom dropped me on my head when I was little, but can't you just look on a road map," said Fred
"That's the problem," said Floyd, "It's not on any map, Highway 192 doesn't exist."
"That's because the government doesn't want you to know about it," said Semis talking without a southern drawl and sounding very serious.
"What the," said Floyd confused, "Who are you?"
"I'm an undercover FBI agent, for security reasons you can still call me Semis. You are on a strange highway that leads straight non-stop to Mexico, and has no exits or turn offs. No one knows when it was first built, but illegal immigrants used it to escape to America, only prob-lem was that it was built on some strange land that exists in many parallel dimensions."
"I don't understand anything you just said,"
"Well, we can't change that, but you are being chased by the mafia. You accidentally hooked up to the wrong load and you now have something they want."
"So what is in the trailer then," asked Floyd.
"I don't know exactly, but it's probably money, guns, diamonds, or even explosives." Fred accidentally dropped a beer can out of the truck and dived after it. "Whatever, he doesn't matter anymore," said Semis, "Whatever it is they want, I do know that's it's worth over forty million dollars. You know what, lets pull over and have a look."
Inside the truck sat one little wooden chest marked Women's Lingerie. "It can't be! You'd think forty million dollars of underwear would be a lot more," said Floyd.
"Oh no, you wouldn't believe how much lingerie cost now a days. I remember this one time I was at the mall...Well, that's not important right now. We can't let them have it. We'll drive to Mexico and them turn around again to Texas, where my men will take it from there."
"And all this trouble for a couple pairs of..." Suddenly over a hundred bullets whizzed past them. It was the mafia.
Both men, dogging bullets, jumped in the truck and drove away. Semis pulled out an army assault rifle and began shooting madly at the cars. "That's right," he yelled while laughing at the destroyed remains of the two cars. "Ya don't mess with me!" Floyd wandered if Semis was all right in the head.
"You all right," asked Floyd worried.
"Course I'm okay, this is what I live for, why do you ask," he was back to normal. Maybe all this stress was getting to him, thought Floyd.
There was yet another sign in front of them. You Are Now South of the Border (always remember to watch your possessions). When Floyd looked back to the passenger seat Semis was gone, there was no sign of him. He stopped at a roadside restaurant to get some food. Once he was done eating he returned to find some men running down the street in woman's lingerie and driving away with Floyd's truck. "Hey come back here with that," yelled Floyd, none of them stopped.
Floyd never got his truck back, and instead got a job at the roadside restaurant making ta-cos. Semis was never seen again. And it's not known what ever became of Mr. Jackson. So the next time your driving down the road and strange things start happening, beware for you may be in the Highway Zone.
User Reviews
Submitted by joedaddy (user info) at 2005-11-03 22:38:26 EST (#)
Ranking: -2
looks like i have something on the bottom of my shoe..........again
Submitted by ghola (user info) at 2005-11-03 21:57:44 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
i hate to tell you, but this was really, really boring.
i read about a fourth of the way through it and just couldn't go any further.
Submitted by Zoidberg (user info) at 2005-11-03 21:47:24 EST (#)
Ranking: -2
Submitted by Unabonger (user info) at 2005-11-03 21:11:43 (#)
Ranking: -2
Jesus H Christ, this sucked shithole.
My dog eating afterbirth is more entertaining than the sorry vomit-covered shitpile you call writing.
One a day you tool.
AHAHAHAHA
Submitted by Bubba2341 (user info) at 2005-11-03 21:31:15 EST (#)
Ranking: -2
Damn, I saw the possibility of a real story in this. Not much of one, but something.
Editing, misspelling, poor grammar, and total lack of flow destroyed it.
Whose alter are you?
Submitted by prosaic_jonny (user info) at 2005-11-03 21:28:59 EST (#)
Ranking: -2
Jesus fucked me and broke my jaw that was worse than swallowing another man's cum.
Please, PLEASE keep 'em coming, and keep getting pussy-upset when you get told where to go* and what to do**.
*a small dark hole
**die alone
All the best
Submitted by Unabonger (user info) at 2005-11-03 21:11:43 EST (#)
Ranking: -2
Jesus H Christ, this sucked shithole.
My dog eating afterbirth is more entertaining than the sorry vomit-covered shitpile you call writing.
One a day you tool.
Submitted by Zoidberg (user info) at 2005-11-03 21:09:47 EST (#)
Ranking: -2
its fun watching you get upset at a website :)
Submitted by sizzlemctwizzle (user info) at 2005-11-03 20:57:34 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
The hyphen come from microsoft word, I was too lazy to take them out. The dialouge is pretty simple. I'm not as mad anymore.
Submitted by Beer_bong (user info) at 2005-11-03 20:57:00 EST (#)
Ranking: -2
Third post in an hour and a half?
Oh yeah, Ubersite is going to love you.
Just die already. Seriously. Fucking kill yourself. God hates you. Everyone hates you. Your friends laugh at you behind your back. Your parents hate you and so do your pets. If you kill yourself, you will make the world a better place.
Submitted by HurtByTheSun (user info) at 2005-11-03 20:55:17 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
Needs better dialogue. More descriptions too. And less hyphens.