Emmet slammed the door to his semi trailer then walked back to where I was standing and brushed the fertilizer from his hands and pants. “All right, boy. I got yer bike stashed under a big ol’ pile of that shit.” He must have seen the look of absolute horror on my face because he suddenly laughed loudly, “Naw, boy, I got yer bike wrapped in a tarp and it’s gonna be just fine. Don’tcha worry about nothin’. Yer baby’s fine.”
I breathed a quick relief sigh and looked out into the night. “You sure you know where you’re going? It’s a bit of a drive from here.”
“Aw, that weasel plantation or whatever it is ain’t nothin’ compared to the drivin’ I’ve done. Once, I drove clear across the country just to punch a guy in the face. Besides, I think I remember bein’ at the place a couple times. Did I tell ya I used to run a school lunch program?”
“Thankfully no you didn’t. I think…”
“Yeah, it was a damn good scam,” Emmet interrupted. “I’d buy dead weasel meat cheap from that place and sell it to schools for their dumbass kids to eat durin’ lunch. I called it ‘Sweet Cow’ because it’s so much more bitter’n beef n’ beans.”
“That’s great.” I gagged. “I think we’d better… So where am I going to sit? I’m not staying in the back.”
“Well,” Emmet scratched his dirty brown hair, “ya can’t stay in the cab with me, so I got a good place for ya. It’ll be comfy as hell if ya give it a chance. I used to smuggle crap in there worth a lot more’n you most’ve the time.”
“I hope you’re better with a stick shift than you are with a knife,” I mumbled before climbing in.
Less than five minutes later we were on the road and I’d found myself stashed in the engine compartment with a dirty pillow and a torn afghan that smelled like cat piss. I smelled something else, too. It was gas. He must have a fuel leak.
That’s really great. I love engine fires…
I could feel the truck slowing as we must have reached the roadblock. I could hear most of the conversation that Emmet had with the cop who stopped us.
“Sorry sir, nobody gets through here. This is a police matter, sir. Please turn your truck around.” The cop banged on the engine compartment with his baton and it resounded in my ears. It was quite possibly the worst sound I’d ever heard. I covered my ears until the ringing stopped.
I pulled my hands from my ears and heard Emmet’s voice, “…well check ‘er out. I got some ID for ya dumb bastards. I’m with the Feds.”
“What’s this about?”
Emmet hacked. “Undercover agricultural sting operation…”
“Ah-huh… What’s in the trailer, Jimmy?”
“Who you callin’ Jimmy? The name’s Emmet!” he shouted.
Oh hell, Emmet… did you even look at the ID?
“It says here that your name is Jimmy Holden. Is that not right? Do I need to see another form of ID?”
“Oh, no, no, no, officer. I just got confused, ‘s all. ‘S just that I never hear anyone call me that, see… nickname’s Emmet. Jimmy ‘Emmet’ Holden. That’s me, all right.”
Christ… The cop would have to be a complete idiot to believe this shit.
“Well then, Emmet. What’s in the trailer?”
We’re in luck. Melonweed’s finest.
“Fertilizer, ya wanna peek in?”
“No, we trust you sir. No inspection is necessary.” The cop shouted to his comrades to open the roadblock and let Emmet’s truck through.
YOU ARE READING
The Death of a Giant
FanfictionAfter the third world war, an infamous biker gang known famously as "The Polecats" gets caught up in a murder plot to kill the last motorcycle maker in the world, Malcolm Corley. Full-length novella based on the game Full Throttle by LucasArts.
