Chapter Eighteen
Butch Takes the Wheel
Larry
Though Larry’s movie choices ran more to graphic horror, he didn’t miss Smokey and the Bandit or BJ and the Bear. They gave him a look inside his future. The movies romanticized the business side, and he found them entertaining.
A book at the library taught him CB slang. From “paying the water bill” to “the yardstick,” he easily memorized everything he read. The excitement he felt about his new occupation couldn’t be put into words. He couldn’t wait to get on the road for his first haul.
Larry had a thick, low voice that didn’t match his lean, almost skinny body that never seemed to fill out. His father had been a thick man who swung large animal carcasses around like they weighed little.
“You’ll grow into that body someday,” Clyde told him. “For me, it began when I turned twenty-five.”
Larry was beginning to doubt most everything his father said.
He never grew past five eleven, and he hated that he didn’t reach six feet.
His pimply face was getting better, but he remained on the thin side.
When he looked in the mirror, he saw his cold eyes and the features of someone scary.
No one else seemed to notice, which was perhaps for the best, though he wouldn’t have minded carrying a few extra pounds.
His name was a problem. He hated Larry. It came to him one night when he couldn’t sleep: his new name was Butch. He would only use it when he needed to impress. Butch the Butcher, they would call him. No, they would never find the bodies, but he knew what his true name was.
The trucking field was ripe for new recruits, and Butch got his first run two weeks after he obtained his license.
He had to drop off cargo in Los Angeles.
On the CB, it was known as Shakeytown, and he liked that.
He studied his map and planned the run with mileage and desolate areas in mind.
He had to find a place to live that wasn’t surrounded by people.
Frank, the man with the money for the haul, shook his hand before he took off. “Drive safe, Larry. And stay away from the smokeys,” he said.
“You bet,” Butch replied. He smiled and climbed inside the cab.
Tall but a little on the thin side, Frank would taste like crow. All feathers and very little meat. He thought about the best way to cook him as he drove on the highway.
The first two nights of his trip, he slept in the top-sleeper. There was little room to move, and he needed time to adjust to the enclosed space. On night three, he found a small hotel and settled down on an old mattress, hoping to sleep.
A little before the sun came up, he heard arguing in the next room.
“You son of a bitch. You slept with her, didn’t you?”
The woman’s voice grew louder the angrier she became. Butch could tell by their slurred speech that they were drinking. Alcohol was his father’s downfall, and he hated the stuff. It also wouldn’t make the woman in the next room taste better.
Within a short time, the man’s voice became cajoling. A few minutes later, the headboard knocked against the wall. It would have been better if the man slapped her around a bit before they had sex. At least Butch would get some enjoyment.
His hand hovered at his crotch, but he pulled back.
He was stronger than this. His fantasies ran to violence and what he would do to his victims. The crime magazines gave him more enjoyment than masturbating.
It crossed his mind to hire a prostitute—not for sex, but to kill her.
Sex reminded him of his mother and how she’d called him evil and nasty.
Like alcohol, sex was evil, and he needed to stay far away.
Unfortunately, killing a prostitute wasn’t worth the risk, but he couldn’t stop picturing it.
When he wrapped his hands around her throat, his mother’s face rose to the forefront.
He switched the fantasy to killing a man.
At the last moment, the pastor’s face came to mind.
The warped fantasies took on new details.
He could actually taste the bodies, and he licked his lips.
Consuming human flesh was quickly becoming his ultimate goal.
To make this fantasy come true, he had to find a home base where he had privacy.
The bed next door finally stopped hitting the wall, and he heard nothing more from the man and woman.
Unable to sleep, he dressed then left to grab snack food from an all-night store a few blocks away.
They had a good magazine section, and he grabbed one of his favorites along with a local paper that had houses listed for sale.
Searching for property, along with his fantasies, took over every aspect of his life.
At a store in Arizona off I-40, he found a free guide with land information.
One caught his eye: 40-acre lots for development, $200 down.
The place was called Juniper Spring's Ranch.
He decided to stop at the land office when he came back through Arizona.
It took three days to land a return haul in Los Angeles. The temperature made it too hot to sleep above the cab, so he found another cheap hotel with a Denny’s next door.
Butch ordered a hamburger and almost spit it out due to its lack of taste, unless you counted the overabundance of salt.
This happened when companies stopped buying direct from a butcher and purchased their meat from those who cared nothing about quality.
So much went into running a good butcher shop, and now the entire trade was being lost to economics.
If you wanted something good to eat, you had to pay for it, and there was nothing better than fresh-cut meat.
Butch set out before the sun rose, planning to stop at the land office after he left California.
His plans changed. Even though it was early, the sun beat down on the cracked asphalt.
On the shoulder of the highway, a woman stood with her thumb out.
Her clothes were faded and dusty, with smudges of dirt.
No one would miss her.
He pulled over and jumped down from the truck as she came running.
As she drew closer, the scent of her unwashed body carried a mixture of dried sweat and onions.
Her hair was clumped in greasy strands. Butch’s overall impression was one of distaste.
This woman desired drugs more than cleanliness, and she left a bitter note on the wind.
Her gaunt cheeks and acne disguised her age, but she wasn’t a teenager.
There was little traffic, but even if the road was crowded, this woman was a ghost on the highway, easily overlooked and easily forgotten.
"Where you headed?" Butch asked.
"Anywhere out of this damned heat," she replied, a cigarette in her hand which accounted for her raspy voice. Calculation filled her expression as she sized Butch up. “Got dumped by my boyfriend. If you give me a lift, I’ve got a little extra in the tank that you might enjoy.”
The thought of having sex with the woman turned his stomach. She was too filthy and beyond disgusting. Another idea grew.
“Sure, hop in,” he told her. “Sorry though, you can’t smoke in the cab. I’ve got a lung condition.”
“No problem,” she said and took a few final puffs before discarding the butt on the side of the road.
A sign showed a rest stop twenty miles ahead.
With the few vehicles on the highway, his evolving plan was doable.
They were sixty miles from the agriculture checkpoint near the California-Arizona border.
Even though he was going in the opposite direction and wouldn’t need to stop, police officers hung around the checkpoint.
He didn’t want to be remembered with a woman in the truck’s cab.
“Name’s Cindy,” she said as soon as she was situated.
“Butch,” he offered with an internal smile.
“Got anything to eat?”
He handed her his last chocolate bar. “It’s all I’ve got. I’ll buy you breakfast when we get to Blythe,” he promised.
“That would be great. Do you have any weed?”
“No weed, and no alcohol. I don’t want to lose my license.”
“Got it,” she said. “I’ll take a nap if you don’t mind.”
Butch didn’t answer, but he did roll his window down a bit to allow her stench to escape.
Within a few minutes, she was snoring. The sound irritated him.
It would be nice to wrap his fingers around her throat to see how long it took to silence her.
His grip tightened on the steering wheel as his palms grew damp at the thought of seeing the life fade from her eyes.