Don’t Pick Up Hitchhikers
I know I’m not supposed to pick up hitchhikers. My mom always told me that it’s dangerous out there on the quiet, dark roads for a girl like me. I’m small, quiet, and ultimately I just look like someone who wouldn’t give anyone a problem. All those things combined make me an easy target for the shady elements of our world, and picking up people who are wandering those roads in the dead of night is just asking for trouble.
I’ve ignored that advice plenty of times, though. I’m a grown woman; I know how to handle myself, and sometimes a person just needs a little help to get where they’re going. After all, we’re all human beings, and not everyone out there is a dangerous psychopath who is just waiting to prey on the innocent.
However, I’m beginning to think that my mom may have been right. I find myself driving late at night very often for work – as a courier for an overnight delivery service, it’s part of the job. But every time I see someone walking on the side of the road, I just can’t find it in me to blow past them without at least seeing if they want a lift.
But the last few encounters I’ve had have gotten increasingly dangerous. The men who I pick up all seem to have one thing on their minds, and even though I’m clearly not interested in them in that way, they just keep trying. I’ll tell them not to – to leave well enough alone and enjoy their free ride. But so many of them lately just push and push, trying to get what they want out of me.
That, of course, makes it even harder for me to resist taking this big knife I keep in between my seat and the center console and just ramming it deep into their chests while they sit beside me. It’s a very large blade – a black-coated bowie knife with a cruelly sharp edge and a very long, pointy tip which makes short work pushing in nice and deep.
This latest hitchhiker hung on for quite a while before he finally stopped breathing. He looked at me, shocked and confused, and I watched the life leave his eyes slowly. Finally he died; blood spilling out of his mouth and down over his plaid flannel shirt. His chin is now resting on the top of his chest, and every time I hit a bump in the road, I see the handle of the knife bobbing up just enough for his nose to touch it.
I can’t help but feel a little sorry for him, though. After all, it’s dangerous out on these quiet, dark roads. An innocent person is just an easy target for the shady elements of the world, and some people really are just dangerous psychopaths waiting to prey on the innocent.