by
THOMAS
J. MISURACA
Marvin spotted the flashing orange hazard lights a mile before the inert red car. The passengers were certainly stranded since Route 29 was desolate at this time of night.
The headlights of Marvin's station wagon revealed a boy emerging from the
car. Though it was a cold and rainy night,
the boy wore only jeans and a gray tank top, exposing his smooth, muscular
arms. He had a boyish face and
dirty blonde hair which curled at his bare shoulders.
If the boy didn't know how to dress, Marvin doubted he could repair a car.
* * *
Greg slid his fingers under the hood and felt for the release. All the time he watched the approaching station wagon, wondering
if it were going to stop and offer assistance. As it pulled behind Greg's car, it's headlights
illuminated the rain soaked breakdown lane of Route 29. Greg lifted the hood to block the glare.
A short, middle aged man stepped out of
the car. Greg was uncertain if
he were pudgy or if it were the effect of the brown trench coat he wore. He had thick, large-framed glasses and
greased-back, black hair.
Greg moved around the car to meet him.
* * *
Marvin extended his hand to the boy.
The boy received it with a gentle grip.
The back of his hand was smooth, but his palm was rough with calluses.
"Car trouble?" Marvin asked the obvious.
"Stupid piece of junk," the boy said, his voice thick with local
accent, "It just gave out on me."
"Want me to take a look?"
* * *
The man offered to take a look at Greg's car.
"That'd be great," Greg said, "I don't know much about these
things."
"The more they break down," the man said as he walked to the front
of the car, "The more you learn."
Greg watched as the man studied the engine.
He kept one hand in his trench coat pocket and scratched his head with
the other. His greasy hair crunched
as it came in contact with his fingers.
* * *
Marvin scratched his head in amazement.
The boy was dumber than he looked-- the fan belt was obviously broken.
"It's your fan belt," Marvin told the boy, "There's a gas station
a few miles down the road, I'm sure the night manager will sell us a new belt. I'll even put it on for you."
"I'd appreciate that," the boy said excitedly.
* * *
The man offered to fix Greg's car.
"Why don't you ride with me down to the station," the man suggested,
"It's too cold to wait out here."
"Good idea," Greg agreed.
"Hop in."
* * *
Marvin studied the boy as he got into his car.
It'd been years since he was alone with one so young-- and gorgeous.
There was no gas station down the road.
They were headed to a desolate area where Marvin would have his way
with the boy. His young body would feel so good against
his.
And when it was done, a simple twist of the neck would keep Marvin's secret.
* * *
Greg kept his hands in his pockets and gently caressed the switchblade he
carried.
The broken fan belt never failed. Stupid
Samaritans would always come along and offer Greg a ride to the next service
station. Along the way, Greg
would place his knife to their throat and tell them to pull over. He'd rob them, slit their throats, then
walk back to his car and pull the actual fan belt out from under the front
seat.
He'd replace it, then drive away without a trace .
* * *
Together, Marvin and Greg drove down Route 29.
©2002