DEAD IN BED By Bailey Simms: The Complete Second Book

PART 9, SECTION 2

I glanced up and down the avenue, careful to keep concealed. Still no sign of Chris.

The truck idled in the falling snow. I shivered. An uneasy feeling crept into my gut.

". . . Ashley Young."

The driver repeated my name in exactly the same way as before, without any urgency at all.

I didn't move.

Now the driver called out, "Get the, lead out. Got places, to go, and, people, to see."

What was this? Why was the driver talking like a bad actor reciting lines? He was still just staring straight out the windshield. Was he suffering from some new TGV strain? I'd never seen or heard anything like this. It was eerie.

"Get in, the truck. Holding up, the show. What the, fukkadillo."

Fukkadillo?

I shook my head, totally annoyed.

I stepped out from behind the Slushy Hut. The only person in the world who ever used the word fukkadillo was Chris.

"Chris! What are you doing? You scared the crap out of me. What the hell is going on? Where are you?"

Chris's head popped up in the semi's cab. He was grinning his stupid broad grin. The driver still kept his gaze locked at the windshield.

"Just get in." Chris couldn't stop laughing. "Watch this! Just get in and I'll show you."

I walked around the semi and climbed in through the passenger door.

Chris was holding a syringe, fully loaded with a cloudy liquid, at the driver's leg. He'd pricked the needle deep into the guy's thigh.

"This is twenty-five milliliters of pure TGV," Chris said, pointing at the syringe. "Which means that this guy—wait what's your name?" he asked the driver, "Jimbo?" The driver nodded yes. "Which means that Jimbo here, will pretty much do whatever I tell him to do. Because he knows that if he doesn't, I'm going to pump his ass full of nympho nitro. Right, Jimbo?"

The driver nodded again. 

"Watch this." Chris laughed. "Seriously, he'll say whatever I tell him to. Jimbo, say, 'asslick pussycat.'"

"Asslick . . . pussycat," the driver mumbled, his gaze fixed out the window.

"Wait, louder, dude."

"Asslick! Pussycat!"

Chris erupted in laughter.

"That's awful!" I said. "Stop! Chris! You can't be doing this!"

"Well," Chris said. "Yeah, I mean, I probably shouldn't." He moved the needle back and forth a little, and the driver winced. "But you know how I found this upstanding citizen? He'd just delivered a truckload of people to the Home Guard. Every one of them was bound and gagged. And he thought it was really funny to feel up just about every woman he unloaded. I watched him do it." Chris turned to the driver. "You even got your paws under some lucky ladies' shirts didn't you Jimbo? And you're not even TGV positive. You sick little puppy! Anyway," Chris said to me, "after he loaded up all these cattle to take to Home Guard headquarters, Jimbo here really didn't expect to find me waiting in the cab. Did you, Jimbo?"

The driver glared into the snowy distance outside.

"'I suck pig teets,'" Chris whispered. "Say it, Jimbo."

"I, suck, pig, teets!" the driver called out.

Chris wailed with laughter, again.

I had to admit. It was kinda funny. Awful, but funny. And I guess the guy did have it coming. . .

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