Date: Sat, 16 Nov 1996 10:21:43 -0600 From: Danny Lloyd Subject: INT: (more) Highway 41 Danny (that's me) wrote: ---------snip-----rip-----cut---- >> The presense of two people on foot was a very rare occurence for this area. >> But, Mark and Wanda didn't have a clue as to how rare this situation was, >> for now there was a third traveller present. This wandereer stood off the >> road, about halfway between the other two. >> The new member of this forsaken group had quietly chosen a vantage point >> allowing a clear view of each of the others. >> >> The new pair of eyes merely watched and waited. Then Phanny (that's her) wrote: >The big lizard watched as the two phigures slowly, haltingly, and >unknowingly moved toward one another. It hunkered down an waited quietly. > >Phanny, makin it less than phive hours..... Now, Danny (that's me) writes: The large, eager lizard, so curious about the two strangers, didn't realize a new visitor slowly approached from behind. The reptile, believing itself to be the predator, suddenly felt an immense pressure on it's back and knew it had made a grave miscalculation in judgement. It had one brief thought of "oh oh" before the stranger's big foot squished it to a state resembling a yukky green pancake. The fourth wanderer dragged his snake-skin boot across a jagged rock, erasing the few tattered remains of the not-so-observent lizard. Six feet higher, a pair of dark eyes surveyed the area, finally resting on the two travellers by the road. Mark and Wanda remained unaware of each other and certainly unknowing of the new stranger's arrival. The setting sun dug into the horizon as the growing cloud cover quickened the day's end. Darkness spread as the man known only as "The Squisher" stepped silently toward highway 41. He intended on using his 14 inch size feet to kick, then stomp, and then squish, bone by cracking bone, his two new prey. The strange but effective technique had won the owner of these bloody boots not only the title of 'The Squisher', but also the number one spot on the FBI's most wanted list. He had flattened 17 people so far and agents were desperate to track him down. But highway 41, alas, contained no speeding government cars 'to the rescue' and no travelling G-Men. Large boots moved in the hot desert sand, one after the other, creating a deadly path toward the two helpless travellers. The Squisher stepped closer and closer to them, but suddenly stopped. He realized, since these two tempting victims were a considerable distance apart, that he now stood very close to the highway but still halfway between the two. He thought to himself, "Which one, which one?" The 'Squisher', though a deadly and psychotic adversary, was not one for making decisions. In fact he thoroughly hated such a choice-filled situation. He stood fidgeting in his well-worn boots, and wimpered quietly in the late afternoon sun. He looked to the right, then the left, then the right. What to do. What to do. --end of part three--- ------------------------------ The on-going chronicles of Master Sleuth Sherman Home I first laid eyes on Mr. Home in the fall of 1979, a night I shall certainly never forget. I was on-foot, which is my typical and preferred mode of travel, returning from a late-evening conference with an associate. I suddenly saw him there, a tall sihloette on the foggy street corner ahead. The neighborhood was deserted except for myself and the mysterious figure beneath the light pole. I might add that this looming street light was in a state of malfunction, a circumstance that added to the enigmatic feel of the moment, the pole's tall darkness mirroring that of the man's image beneath it. His presense there was in itself not an unusual type of occurence, even in the post-midnight realm of this quiet neighborhood. Often there would be an extra, out-of-place feature dotting the unpredictable landscape of this town. Downing was and is a very small, but restless, community. --To be continued--