Thursday, October 27, 2016

The Last Three Little Pigs

Big, Bad Wolf
Once upon a time there were three little pigs. They were the Last Three Little Pigs of a kind. Before the Last Three Little Pigs, there had been many of their kind, but all except these last three had either been consumed by the Big Bad Wolf, or sent into exile by the mightiest of the Last Three Little Pigs. We shall hear more of this mighty little pig later, as you will see. Wolves of all kinds are very fond of consuming pigs for lunch, or for any meal of the day for that matter, The Big Bad Wolf living in the neighborhood with these particular Last Three Little Pigs was hungry, sure enough. Having consumed all the other little pigs in his region much earlier, this particular wolf, who we shall call "Donald" or, "The Donald" if you must, had by now worked up a raging and voracious new appetite. Donald was currently hot on the trail of the Last Three Little Pigs, and he thought he had them cornered in their houses. And for what it's worth, the main reason Donald had had such easy pickings with all the pigs he had earlier consumed, was the fact their houses had proven to be not in order, and too insubstantial to withstand Donald's pathologically insulting aggression.
Donald perceived no good reason the Last Three Little Pigs should be any different than the earlier ones. Maybe they had more substantial houses and better defenses, but in Donald's opinion, nothing would be able to withstand his abusive onslaught.  You see, even if Donald was not all that smart, Donald certainly had his momentum!  A fact which was astounding, even to Donald himself.
The first house Donald attacked belonged to a pig named Marco. And, although Marco was a very handsome guy for a pig, he was also a very, very lazy little pig, and liked to lay around and talk a lot. He didn't really like anything to do with work; he just wanted to show everyone how great he thought himself to be, and for them to fawn over him and brag on him. Work was for suckers in Marco's laissez-faire opinion.
So, when Donald, the Big Bad Wolf showed up at Marco's house, he saw how easy things were going to be. In the first place, the house was made out of pure field straw, and Donald already knew it had two overlapping and overdue mortgages on it besides. Marco's house fit the very definition of 'underwater financing'! Easy pickings for sure, and since Donald had a reputation of being a very rude and impolite Big Bad Wolf, he could sometimes use that character trait to his advantage. Now, Donald deceptively and very politely knocked on Marco's door.
"Who's there?" asked Marco from inside cautiously. He was always afraid the next knock on his door might be a bill collector or one of his in-laws who weren't all that fond of him either.
"Oh, it's just me, your friend Scott Walker from Milwaukee." lied The Donald.
Marco, the Pig
"Well, you ain't fooling me!" cried Marco looking through his peephole. "Scott Walker ain't no friend of mine, and besides, I can see you and I know your damned voice too. You're Donald, that stinking, rotten, Big Bad Wolf from New York City!"
Donald hadn't really expected to fool Marco, but he thought he would give the politeness a try, just in case. Ordinarily, politeness of any sort was repulsive to The Donald, figuring it as a weakness for losers.
"Well, be that as it may, let me in anyway." Donald demanded, in a pretty loud voice. Maybe simple imperiousness would work instead.
"Oh no, hell no, not by the hair on my chinny chin, chin!" answered Marco.
Donald could now see just pure, raw aggression was the way it had to be. "All right then Marco. This is on you silly boy. Since you won't let me in, I'm going to huff, and I'm going to puff, and I'm going to blow your goddamned straw house down around your Mexican ass."
"Cuban ass!" yelled Marco indignantly.
"Whatever." said Donald, and he commenced to huff and puff and blow with all his might, and Marco's house began to shake and blow away in tatters as Marco fled out the back door. He ran all the way to the second of the Last Three Little Pigs' houses and cried out to be let inside.
Texican Pig "Ted"
This second house happened to belong to Marco's sometimes friend Ted, who wasn't nearly as lazy as Marco, and his house was far more substantial than Marco's straw house since it was built of wood planks fastened to each other with steel nails. Ted had gleefully 'liberated' the planks from Rick Perry's ranch one dark night, and the nails were purchased with the money from the collection plates at the church where Ted's dad presided. The labor to build the house came from church volunteers after Ted and his dad had 'prayed over it' with the volunteers. Therefore and also, there was no mortgage on Ted's house and he owned it outright, free and clear.
"Hey, Ted! Let me in! Let me in!" screamed Marco. "The Big Bad Wolf's right on my ass!"
At first, Ted didn't hear him because he was in the game room watching and tsk, tsking over gay porn with the youth leader from his dad's church. It was only after Marco slammed a rock against the wall two or three times did Ted realize someone was at the door.
"What the hell do you want, Marco?" demanded Ted when he answered the door. "I'm busy goddammit and don't have time for any of your juvenile bullshit!"
A panicked Marco screamed, "Let me in right now, Ted! Donald, the Big Bad Wolf is breathing down my neck as we speak. He's already blown my house down!"
"Do tell?" said an unimpressed Ted as he turned to close the door in Marco's face, but he was a bit too slow and the hyper-panicked Marco had already pushed past him to get inside.
"I gonna need a glass of water right now!" said Marco. Anxiety and panic always gave Marco a very dry mouth.  That right there definitely was a personal curse, for sure.
"Get it your own damned self." said Ted, resigning himself to Marco's presence. Ted figured one more to watch and tsk, tsk over gay porn, why not?
He locked the door just a few seconds ahead of Donald's loud knock came. 
"Open the goddamned door!" Donald commanded.
"Who the hell is it?" asked Ted, although he already knew.
"It's The Donald you twit! Now let me in!"
"Well, I don't think so, Donald. Not after all those despicable things you said about me, my daddy and my wife." Ted responded. "And, I'll stay pissed about that too unless and until I decide it's not politically expedient."
Donald's Lapdog
"Listen, you imbecilic idiot! I never said a damned thing that wasn't true. Now, open the damned door or I'll turn you into another lapdog like Chris Christie. Hell, it might be nice to have a matched pair of lapdogs at that."
"I already told you to go screw yourself, Donald. Now, why don't you just go ahead and do it!" said Ted. "And, leave me to hell alone!"
"You don't know who you're messing with Ted." said Donald. "I never forget an insult and always, always get even. Now open the goddamned door or I'm going to huff, and I'm going to puff, and I'm going to blow your goddamned termite-ridden house down around your Mexican ass!"
"It's Cuban! Cuban! Dammit, Donald, don't you ever listen? How many times do I have to tell you, you jerk?  And, no damned way am I letting you in, not by the hair on my chinny chin, chin!" replied Ted. "No damned way!"
At that, Donald commenced to huff and puff and blow with all his might, and Ted's house began to shake and blow away into scattered planks as Marco and Ted - and don't forget the youth leader - all fled out the back door. They ran all the way to the third of the Last Three Little Pigs' houses and cried out to be let inside.
They really, really didn't want to be at this particular house but had no other choice as they hammered on the door of their last and only hope for salvation.
A Wise & Canny Old Broad!
"Who's there?" asked Hillary, who had just gotten off the telephone with her Wall Street brokers. There were a few million she needed to put to work somewhere.
"It's Ted and Marco - and don't forget our youth leader!" hollered Ted.
"Do I know you bozos?" she asked. "The only ones I know by those names are discredited, passé politicians.  And, I'm sorry, I just don't know about your youth leader." 
"Oh, Christ, Hillary," wailed Marco. "Don't you remember how kind and nice I've always been to you? About how I welcomed you in the Senate and all?"
"Since when?" said Hillary. "Listen, you infant, I was out of my Senate office two years before your wee little candy ass ever even got to the Senate Sonny Boy. Besides, I hear you aren't ever there anyway.  Why don't you go weeping and whining to your boy Donald?"
"Because he's the goddamned Big Bad Wolf himself!" screamed Ted over Marco's shoulder. "He's making a hard run at us and that's why we're here. He's already consumed all the other pigs in our bunch and your place is the only place left for us. Let us in for the love of God, Hillary. We'll play nice, honest! You know you can count on us."
"Yeah right," said this alpha brood sow. "like you played nice with all those sneaky lies and dirty tricks you've been throwing at everyone for months? Seems like to me your dogma just got run over by your karma. Ah, but what the hell, come on in anyway. I try to maintain a pretty big tent you know."
Ted and Marco both thankfully scampered inside just as The Donald appeared at the end of the driveway. 
"Get off my property!" ordered Hillary as Donald ran towards the door. "I've got more than enough miscreants and malcontents inside already to suit me."
She slammed the door so fast Donald's face smacked into it, causing his combover to cascade over his eyes, temporarily blinding him.
"Open the door!" screamed Donald as he flipped the combover back on top of his head. "And, I mean right damned now!"
Speaking through the automated speaker installed in the door, Hillary said, "Now see here Donald, ordinarily I would tell you to go screw yourself, but I realize so many are telling you that these days, the words no longer have any meaning for you. It's just the same old words you hear all the time. In fact, I can imagine you hear that so often the words actually provide comfort for you these days."
"And, since I have no desire to provide you comfort, I'll just say, 'Get the hell off my porch!' And, if you don't, I'm gonna sic Jesus on you." 
"Sic Jesus on me?" shouted Donald incredulously. "What the hell do you mean? Don't you know I'm the only goddamned Christian around here?"
"Jesus is my Doberman-Rottweiler mix." said Hillary maliciously.
The Donald very prudently left at that point, but not for long. He called the local sheriff, who, as a result, now considered himself to be a particular friend of Donald's. The Donald filed an official complaint by telephone about being threatened with Hillary's dog. The sheriff saw to it the animal control people came out to seize the dog that very day, and he went out and had a very serious talk with Hillary himself. He was sorely tempted, but never got any excuse to use his taser or sidearm on her though. That was a huge disappointment for him personally, but oh well, what can you do, especially when there are witnesses and they all have cell phone cameras these days?
Within thirty minutes after the sheriff left, Donald was back beating on Hillary's, the third little pig's door. "OK, Hillary. Enough of this bullshit now. I'm the winner, so let me in!" he said.
"Oh, hell no, you haven't won a damned thing yet." Hillary informed him through the door's speaker. "You're a loser, a bonafide idiot, and a great danger to others around you too, and if I have anything to do about it, I'm gonna see to it you get the humiliation you deserve!"
"And, I'm damned sure not gonna let you in here at all. Nosiree Bob, not by any of the hairs on my chinny, chin chin!" 
"So, go screw yourself!"
Donald screamed," OK Now! Open the door right now or I'm going to huff, and I'm going to puff, and I'm going to blow your goddamned house down around your deplorable ass!"
"Deplorable ass?" chortled Hillary. "I love it! Bring it on!"
Hillary, the third little pig wasn't worried. She had seen to it her house was designed and built by the very same people who did bank vaults, structures she was very, very familiar with. Her house was made of solid brick, with 3/4" solid stainless-steel tie-rods anchored back to cinder block inside walls. The cinder blocks themselves were filled with high-density cement, sealed on both sides with six layers of coal tar pitch intermeshed with titanium diamond-mesh.  The house was storm proof, hurricane proof, flood proof, bomb proof, and for damned sure, it was Donald proof! Hell, she could afford it, why not? She could make enough money to build three houses just like this one with a single speech on Wall Street.
"I said go screw yourself Donald!" she said again. "Even if it will be a comfort to you!"
So Donald commenced to huff and puff and blow with all his might. Nothing happened, not even a single roof shingle lifted or flapped due to his manly (as, so he believed) blast of hot air. He re-doubled his efforts then and huffed and puffed until his face changed from orange to bright red, and all the bleach ran out of his combover and down his face. Nothing, nothing! To add insult to injury, Donald was soon compelled to call for an emergency oxygen breathing apparatus just so he could get home that day.
But Donald wasn't done, nosiree, not The Donald! The Donald was going to have his way no matter what! That was a tradition he certainly did not intend to abandon now.
Donald schemed, he planned, and he called in consultants, all of whom he eventually fired, and he even had a session with a mystic just for giggles, which he sorely needed. Still nothing. Until at last, The Donald realized that the third little pig actually did have one small vulnerability he could exploit. The chimney for Christ's sakes! Why hadn't he thought of it earlier? No matter, it was a done deal for sure now, and vengeance would surely be sweeter than any honey!
Donald, the Big Bad Wolf, got busy. First, he hired the guy with the black ops personal security outfit to help plan the operation which they code-named "Bang, Bang, The Wicked Witch is Dead!"  Donald loved that little touch, so sweet to his ears. Mr. Prince also offered to do the job himself - for an appropriate fee of course - but The Donald declined, even though money was not the concern - he had never planned to pay the bastard anyway. They had Chris Christy fly the right sort of ladder in on Donald's personal jet. This was a real thrill for Christy since he had never, ever been the sole passenger on a big jet airplane before. Two seats yes, plenty of times, and of course he had once been in total control of a major metropolitan bridge, but never an entire huuge jet airplane! 

On the darkest night of the month, The Donald began his mission. Surreptitiously, he approached the back side of the third little pig's house and set his ladder in place. He climbed atop the house and closely inspected the chimney. After making sure the chimney was large enough for his copious frame (Donald preferred the term "man-sized" himself, in spite of his other physical shortcomings). After ascertaining there was no heat or smoke arising from the chimney, he began his descent down it. There was a wonderful anticipatory glee in his heart as he imagined the end results of this great occasion. Donald was personally going to enjoy every second of this payback mission, and life was going to be good again! Hell, life was going to be GREAT Again!
But Hillary, that third little pig, was a wise, canny, shifty, battle-scarred and wary old shellback of a broad indeed. She knew exactly who The Donald was because he telegraphed it far and wide with everything he said or did. She knew exactly what to expect from such a pathological narcissist, who could always be counted upon to be ruled completely by his irresistible Big Bad Wolf urges, just as you can always count on night becoming day and vice versa. You see, that third little pig had been around a block or two. Or three, or four, or however many you want to name. Hillary had the chops, and she damned well knew how to use them!
Hillary, with the help of her guests Marco and Ted - and let's not forget that youth leader - therefore was very well prepared. She had laid very abundant fire material in the bottom of her huuge fireplace, atop which she placed an old-fashioned 80-gallon black iron pot filled with pre-warmed water - she would need a great big one for this ugly, unpleasant beast. And the precise moment The Donald's feet sensed the warmed water, Hillary lit the fire, the fuel for which was already soaked with plenty of accelerant, and she then fired up her big draft fans to fan the flames. Mercifully for The Donald, his ordeal was relatively brief but seemed pleasingly painful enough to him to satisfy all the witnesses. 
The Last Three Little pigs - and let's not forget the youth leader - all agreed among themselves afterward, that once all the crap had been boiled out of The Donald, they were able to send the remains to the undertaker in a shoebox - which they very happily did.

Monday, October 10, 2016

The White Rig

They both knew the white truck was way too heavily overloaded. Raymond knew the load wasn't highway legal, which is the big reason the two men stood next to the truck on this particular early Sunday morning. Raymond desperately needed a cash draw against the next job. He damned well hoped he could get one, because he was damned sure gonna be in big trouble if he couldn't. It was imperative to get this load of gear over to the town of Torwood so he could claim the new job was started. Taking the load over early on a Sunday morning was Sammy's idea. Sammy stood next to Raymond as they looked over the load.
Good thing he could count on a loyal guy like Sammy to help out too. It was Sammy who came up with the bright idea to load the rig this way. Sammy said the could avoid the troopers by making their trip early on a Sunday morning and sticking to the back roads off the interstate. Sometimes Sammy came up with genius notions, and this was one of them. Sammy had come through big time with a way to snatch Raymond's cookies out of the fire. Raymond owed Sammy a lot besides money for sure.
Already Raymond was three weeks behind in paying his men and could not hold them off much longer. Two or three guys were starting to make some pretty ugly noises about pay and voicing dire threats under their breath. Didn't they know he was doing his goddamned best and would pay them just as damned soon as he got his hands on some money anyway? As it was right now he barely had enough in his pocket to buy fuel for the freaking truck for shit's sake!
Good thing Sammy was around to calm things down. That damned guy was absolute gold at times and this was turning out to be one of them. 
"Make sure them binders are good and tight." Raymond told Sammy. "We can't have nothing rolling off this rig before we reach Torwood."
"You got it Boss. Damned right!"
Raymond had not shaved for a couple days so he looked a little on the scruffy side, not that it mattered to him right now. His belly bulged out over his belt in front a little and his clothing was soiled and rumpled. If you saw him on the street you could easily believe he was homeless, especially with his blurry eyes and spastic movements. He was fairly tall, but with his flab and sloped shoulders he seemed shorter than he actually was. He looked like he was a little hung over this morning too. Sammy on the other hand was shorter, wiry looking and much neater. He carried himself well, and with his cobalt blue eyes he might even be considered handsome but for the hard and tired look his face showed this morning. There were heavy wrinkles at the corners of Sammy's eyes, but his eyes were bright and alert. Sammy had worked for Ray over five years now and they were social friends too. 
For two months Raymond had been robbing Peter to pay Paul as the saying went, ever since they got chased off that one job for 'poor performance'. The general contractor called him in and told him his work was sub-standard and unacceptable. That cheap bastard told him to get his goddamned gear off the job that very day. Then, the son of a bitch hadn't paid him a frigging dime except for his first money draw. Raymond and his crew put three week's work into that frigging job too, and he would bet his last dollar the general contractor damned sure had billed his own client for that work too. But, what the hell could you do? Water over the dam now anyway and best not to worry about it.
Ever since being fired from that job though, it was just one damned thing after another. It seemed like everything he touched just went to hell. Getting chased off the job put him behind the eight ball big time on money, and when the next guy went bust on him before he even got good and started, that really put the icing on the cake. He made only one pissy little draw on that one before the contractor went belly up and informed him there was no more money coming. Zippo. Nada. He lost all the pay for three weeks' work in that one if you didn't count the initial money draw he got, which Raymond never did. It damned sure hadn't left him anything to pay his guys with.
Hell, now he barely had enough money to buy weed for Christ's sake, and hadn't had a drink in over a two weeks before last night. Then Melodie up and took off with the kids and went to stay with her mother. That was over a month ago and now she was talking about divorce and child support too. And here Raymond was living in his frigging truck for Christ's sakes! Sometimes you just couldn't catch a break no matter how hard you tried. Yep, he was pretty damned desperate to get his equipment on the new job over in Torwood so he could make a quick money draw on it. You might say it was a critical situation.
"How's she looking, Boss? Sammy spoke up, breaking Raymond's reverie.
"Guess it'll have to do. Let's hit the road while we can, Sam. We damned sure don't want no troopers snooping around this load."
"You got that right, Boss, 'specially with that bag of weed you got stashed behind the seat in the load. Don't want no frigging sniffer dogs getting near that stuff, no sir!" Sammy laughed.
Over the past couple of years,Raymond had supplemented his income selling pot. It was no big deal since he went real low profile by quietly peddling a little weed to his own employees only. Raymond was damned careful about that because he sure didn't need any drug felonies on his record. His own supplier suggested he do it that way and Raymond figured this was a safe and easy way to make a little money on the side and pay for his own personal weed too. Trouble was lately, nobody had been paid for so long, he was down to selling weed to his guys on credit. A problematic thing for Raymond, since he knew if he did not provide weed to them while owing them money, they might easily turn on him and it would make things pretty damned iffy for him if they did. No, he would continue letting them have all they wanted on credit as long as his supplies lasted. Raymond figured he really had no real choice until he got everyone caught up on what he owed them. How the hell did he ever let it get to this point anyway?
Already some of his boys owed him a week's worth of their pay or more on their weed accounts. Raymond did not like to think about what might happen if his weed supply ran out before everyone got paid. His own supplier did not do business on credit for damned sure. But, that was a worry for another day, and Raymond figured he would get things back on track on this next job. Hell, that was really why Raymond was in this business to begin with; the chance to make a quick buck. When you got behind the eight ball on money, you could always hope the next job would bail you out. Sometimes it was a very near thing too, but Raymond had done it too many times to count over his years in business.
The two men, employee and boss, climbed into the truck and Raymond fired up the engine. The truck was the biggest heavy-duty pickup they make. On the back were loaded two gas-powered cement mixers, and more than dozen left over 80 pound bags of mortar mix from the last job. Coupled to the heavy duty towing hitch at the rear, was a double-axle trailer which Raymond took on trade for money owed on a job last year. Loaded on that trailer was yet another heavy-duty white pickup truck, also loaded with many more sacks of mortar mix. The aggregate of the load made a very heavy and unwieldy load indeed, which was the reason Raymond was certain it was not highway legal. The main reason the second white truck was loaded on the trailer instead of being driven on its own, was because Raymond right now simply did not have the money to buy fuel for two rigs. Things would be cut pretty closely just to have enough fuel as it was. It was Sammy's idea to load the extra truck on the trailer this way, and to Raymond it seemed brilliant. 
Turns out Ol' Sammy was one helluva good ace to have in your hole at times - like now.
Problem was, there was no real choice except the interstate for the first twenty miles. That was the riskiest section, so they planned to start just before dawn. There was less chance to encounter troopers on the prowl then was the idea. Raymond knew through experience the state troopers on the interstate were much fewer in number in early morning hours, although there was still a chance of seeing one. The hope was even if they did meet with one, the trooper would not notice their illegal load in the darkness. They had about ninety miles altogether to travel, but Sammy knew about a nice and lonely secondary road along the boundary of a big swamp. Sammy claimed they could depend on almost no traffic for over sixty miles of this two-lane. The main risks were the few miles at either end of it, and they would just have to trust to their luck on those. That was a risk Raymond had no choice but to take now if he expected to get his gear on the new job.
It was on the on ramp onto the interstate that Raymond felt just how heavily they were loaded. 
"Christ's sakes, Sammy!" he exclaimed. "I can't get any damned acceleration out of this rig at all!"
Sammy only grunted, and after the truck entered the more level travel lanes Raymond found he was able to slowly accelerate to a higher speed. But, the heavily overloaded truck combination took over two miles to get their speed up to around sixty. Sixty miles per hour was still not close to the speed of the other traffic flying by them at seventy and more. Raymond kept to the far right slow lane and let all the other traffic go on by. Keeping the accelerator to the floor, Raymond struggled to maintain a miserable sixty miles per hour as the engine roared and both men watched nervously for troopers. 
"Hellfire, Sammy," Raymond complained. "I can't get any more than sixty out of this rig flat out on the level. That's as much as she's got, and not a damned bit more. I don't think we can make it on the hills. Trooper is gonna stop us for damned sure."
"Just keep the hammer down, Ray, and don't look back. We ain't got that far to go, and there ain't much in the way of hills where we're going."
"Yeah, and I'm scared shitless." replied Raymond. "But, you're right. We ain't got no choice and maybe our luck will hold."
Their luck did hold, and the plan worked. Thirty minutes later Raymond coasted down the off ramp, braking very carefully with no troopers at all having been seen. Within five more minutes they finally turned onto their lonely secondary road, each one breathing his own simultaneous sigh of relief.   
"Hot damn! That frigging interstate's behind us!" crowed Raymond. "I'm going to let her romp and give 'er all she's got now."
"Speed limit's fifty-five." observed Sammy dryly.
"Oh Hell, I know that! But, we got to get on down the road. The sooner we get to the other end, the sooner we get off this frigging road. I'm gonna keep the hammer down and let 'er do whatever she can. You said there ain't no patrol on this road anyway."
"Well, I ain't never seen one yet, and it's your rig." Said Sammy.
About a mile ahead of them, old man Wally McFadden was headed in the same direction in his ten-year-old fishing car. Ever since he retired Wally didn't give much of a hoot for anything. Wally went where he wanted and did what he wanted to do, and did it when he wanted to do it. He was 'in it for the minute' as he liked to brag sometimes, and today Wally was headed for his favorite fishing hole on the river about thirty miles ahead. Wally's wife Martha was OK with things too and had never complained about his fishing. Wally figured she was just glad to get him out of her way and out from under her feet.  Martha was a good old girl all right, but 'Familiarity breeds contempt' was one philosophy Wally agreed with.
Wally liked to keep himself busy doing something interesting too. He knew too many people who went sedentary after retirement, and mostly they didn't live very long after that. He wanted to stay busy with something, and at seventy years old Wally thought himself pretty damned lucky to feel as good as he did. He generally watched what he ate, had never messed with cigarettes, and only took a drink of the hard stuff now and again. He allowed himself one six-pack of beer a week, and sure, maybe he could stand to lose a few pounds, but how many old farts can balance on one leg to put on their pants at seventy, anyway? Hell, Wally figured he could probably balance on one leg all damned day long if he felt like it.
This particular morning, Wally got up at five AM, made coffee and a couple sandwiches which he put in a bag. Gathering everything he needed, he left his wife a note.
"Gone fishing. Be back around supper. Don't forget to feed the dog." the note read. He knew she wouldn't forget to feed the dog - it was just his way of giving Martha a good poke. Keeps her honest, he figured.
Wally tooled along in his car minding his own business. He was lazily thinking of the fishing day ahead of him when he saw the white rig in his rear view mirror.  A flash of white from the rising sun first caught his eye and it took a moment or two to realize it was a truck slowly overhauling his car from behind. The road here is very flat, bordering as it does on a swamp, and straight as an arrow in places for some miles.  You can see a long way in each direction. In the entire stretch of over sixty miles you will seldom meet more than half a dozen cars and you might be passed from behind by only one or two the whole way. There is very little traffic on this road, especially at this time of day. 
Wally thought little of the rig behind him. He was in no hurry and driving just under the speed limit as the truck neared. Soon he could see some sort of bright reddish orange equipment over the cab's roof on the truck's back. Wally expected the truck to pass, since there was no oncoming traffic at all, and miles of room for it to pass. But, the truck did not pass, and instead it hugged Wally's rear bumper as if impatient for Wally to either speed up or move over out of his way.
"What in Hell's wrong with that guy?" Wally said softly to himself as he watched the truck in his mirror. "Why doesn't he just go ahead and pass?"
"What's wrong with that son of a bitch?" exploded Raymond in the cab of his truck behind Wally. "Why don't he speed up and get out of my goddamned way?"
"Probably some old farmer." Sammy commented.
"He ain't no damned farmer! There ain't no damned farm around here for at least fifty miles! That's a goddamned swamp out there, in case you ain't noticed!"
"Well, just some old fart then." said Sammy reasonably.
"Yeah, and that old fart's right in my goddamned way! I'm gonna ram him right in the ass!"
"Yeah, better not do that." Sammy commented as he glanced at Raymond.
"Oh, I ain't. But he's just really pissing me off." said Raymond as he laid on his horn.
The horn blowing really ticked Wally off too. No one likes someone on their rear bumper to begin with, and to rudely blow their horn like that was way over the top in Wally's opinion. His usual way of dealing with tailgaters was simply to keep slowing down until they passed, which they almost always did. But, this time was different. This guy was really, really irritating. Maybe it was because of that contrary nature his wife always accused him off - Wally begged to differ, but he decided he wasn't going to slow down for this damned fool. Instead he reached under his car seat to make sure 'Old Mr. Pew Pew', his .38 revolver was still there in its leather holster where he always kept it. Satisfied, Wally maintained his steady speed just under the limit, no more, no less by God. He resolved no damned impatient idiot was gonna bully Wally McFadden, nosiree. If that idiot wanted to get by, why didn't he just go ahead and pass then? He had miles of open road ahead of him as far as he could see, so why didn't he just get on down the damned road?
Radio reception is poor along this stretch, but Wally had found a station without too much static he could listen to, so he just relaxed as best as he could, listening to the music. Driving along at his sedate pace, he glanced in his rear view mirror now and then, just keeping a wary eye on that damned fool idiot behind him in the white rig. Wally was not going to worry about the bastard if he could help it.
Following in the truck behind and seeing his horn had no effect on the driver in front of him, Raymond gave up blowing it but stayed right on the bumper of the car ahead.
"Can't you get on by him then Ray?" Sammy asked.
"Oh Hell no!" replied Raymond. "I got 'er floored, but she won't do any more'n maybe another three or four more miles an hour flat out. I don't think we can get by that son of a bitch!"
"We was going faster than that on the big highway." said Sammy.
"Yeah, I know. But this road has more humps in it. We could maybe lose our load or something." said Raymond. "But, I damned sure wish that bastard would pull over and let us by. We need to make a little better time if we can. I'm worried about the other end, and don't want to get there so late the cops can spot us."
"If I had a damned gun I'd shoot the bastard." 
"Yeah well, it's your rig." replied Sammy, apropos of nothing..
Raymond tried to keep his truck right on Wally's rear bumper for the next twenty miles as Wally did his best to ignore him. That's pretty hard to do when someone is on your bumper like that, but to Wally's mild surprise he found he could, and after a while even began to have a little fun with the situation. He tried slowing down slightly, causing the truck behind him to slow down too. When the car ahead of him slowed, Raymond pulled out to pass, but then Wally speeded back up to fifty-five and Raymond was left hanging in the left lane with not enough juice to pass.
Watching in his rear view mirror, Wally could see the white rig lagging behind him as it struggled to catch up. It dawned on Wally then, the reason the other guy did not pass was simply because he did not have enough power to do it. And, a mere few seconds after realizing that, and thinking about the horn blowing, a nasty little devil came to perch on Wally's shoulder and whispered in his ear. The devil on his shoulder made Wally do the same thing over again. And then again, and then yet again. Each time the white rig behind him would be forced to slow down, and when he pulled out to try to pass, Wally would leave him far behind once again. It was kinda fun and Wally smiled a little each time.
Maybe his wife was right about that contrary thing after all, Wally thought, but he figured it was only payback to the other guy for all that tailgating and horn blowing. The idiot ought to know better than that, and it was pretty damned rude of him to hang on his ass that way.
"That old son of a bitch is screwing with me!" screamed Raymond to Sammy furiously, spittle flying from the corner of his mouth the third time he tried to pass and got left in the lurch. "This time I really am going to run that goddamned bastard over!"
This time Sammy simply nodded his head saying nothing, and Raymond did not ram Wally's car either, although he did get within two or three feet of him for a little while. But a small stab of guilt started working on Wally then, and he began to realize maybe he should quit antagonizing the other driver, and behave himself before things took a bad turn. He went back then to his steady just-under-the-limit speed, but he was still resolved he was not going to let some idiot in an overloaded truck push him around. Nosiree, not Mr. Wally McFadden and not while he had Old Mr. Pew Pew under his car seat!
There is a hard right turn in the road where it crosses Wally's river, and that's where Wally finally slowed down almost to a stop. He deliberately forced the white rig behind him come to a complete stop before he finally pulled all the way off the travel lane to allow it to pass. And, as the white rig snorted and bucked struggling to accelerate away, Wally saw Sammy leaning far out of the passenger window waving his middle digit vigorously at the end of his extended arm and shouting something. Wally couldn't exactly make out the words, but to his perverse delight, it seemed pretty obvious the words were not complimentary. Wally saw Raymond too, on his own side of the truck, doing exactly the same thing sticking his own arm up over the cab of the truck, with his middle digit extended, arm pumping up and down madly. 
None of that surprised Wally at all. He was not particularly offended either as he watched the white rig slowly gaining speed as it roared away leaving a blue stream of exhaust smoke behind. Wally figured he probably would have done the same thing himself, and he grinned wryly to himself as he got out of his fishing car and gathered his gear. If he didn't forget, maybe he would tell Martha about this little adventure tonight when he got home and they could laugh about it together. Then again, maybe he wouldn't mention it either. But all in all, it turned out to be a pretty damned satisfying start to his day.
At that same moment, fifteen miles further ahead State Trooper Stanley Smith is finishing his breakfast and coffee. In a few more minutes he will kiss his wife goodbye before heading out for today's patrol shift on the interstate highway a few miles further on. Newly married, Trooper Smith and his new wife enjoy living out in the country on this lonely country road, even if Sally did have reservations at first. Now she loves living here, and especially her lovely flower garden which Stanley dug up for her and helped her plant. It will soon be time for Stanley to don his straight-brimmed trooper hat, get in his patrol car and head to work. It is merely another day for Trooper Smith and life is good.
And, if you were following ten minutes or so behind Raymond and Sammy in their white rig, when you came up on the last two miles of this sixty-some-odd mile long stretch of lonely highway that morning, you would notice the blue lights flashing ahead. And, as you got closer you would see the state trooper's patrol car itself, something you very seldom see stopping anyone on this road. You would also see a dangerously overloaded heavy-duty white truck rig pulling a trailer with another truck loaded on it, pulled onto the shoulder of the road. And as you pass on by you would see the two angry looking men in handcuffs standing next to the white rig. You would see too, a very neatly attired young state trooper standing in front of the two angry men reading them their rights from a card.
As Mary Chapin Carpenter used to sing, "Sometimes you are the windshield; Sometimes you are the bug."  And, someone else has observed, "Sometimes you are the dog; Sometimes you are the hydrant." 
And if you are lucky, there may be times when you get to see karma kicking somebody's butt, even if you don't realize it when you see it happening. It's almost always very satisfying anyway!