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One hand on the wheel, the other on the gun, she drove the Buick down I-80 cranking Nine Inch Nails, volume high as she. A rosary dangling from the rear-view—shadow swinging like a hung man on the sun-shrivelled dash—reminded her of Chuck.
They’d met in a bar just outside of Omaha. She had no money but she did have tits. He had plenty of the former, not enough of the latter. It was a fuck made in heaven. He was half her age and twice her height but none of that mattered laying down. She’d wrecked his marriage, then his head, snatched his stash and his car, then headed for California.
She stopped for gas outside Salt Lake. The attendant was mid-50s but sun and snow had burnt him old. After he filled her tank, she followed him into the empty station.
“Blow or blowie?” she said.
One look at her tits and “Blowie” was all he said.
She stopped off in Reno before hitting the Sierras; undid a few buttons; slapped tits and her last twenty bucks on a blackjack table. Five hours later, she was five grand up and under the dealer in a comped suite shoving a pinkie up his ass. He finished first but finished her off even though break time was over and fucking guests was against the rules.
Her kinda guy. She thought about hanging around as she emptied the minibar—danced around the room, tits flapping, ass pumping—then passed out.
Next day, she snorted the rest of the stash, and hit the Sierras around noon. A trucker sidled up; stared down from his cab. She undid her halter top with one deft hand flipped him a tit and then the bird. She was over the pass and going down fast. Hand on the gun, she rolled down the window and shot at the truck.
“Fuck you, fucker trucker! Fuck you. Fuck me. Fuck cancer! Fuck it all fucking fuck!”
She took her foot off the brake, pumped up the volume and went down screaming.