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The Unobservant Trucker

[]The Unobservant Trucker

 

Copyright © 2017 Austin Malcome, All Rights Reserved.

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Version 2017.1.1

 

Table of Contents

Title

Table of Contents

Beginning

End

About the Author

 

The Unobservant Trucker lived in her semi truck the way a fish lives in it’s bowl. The cab of her eighteen-wheeler was her entire world, a universe in microcosm. On the rare occasions when she bothered to expend the energy necessary to look out through her windshield, she saw only strange and confusing images—glimpses of another, less important world, an alien world, filtered through glass and dust and wiper-schmeared bug guts.

Rush Limbaugh was her God. He spoke unto her in a loud and mighty voice that thundered from her speakers and rumbled in her ears. When he yelled, the Unobservant Trucker shook with fear. When he endorsed a product, she quivered with desire. She awoke to his voice, and slept under it’s droning spell. He was one of the Constants, an Always Was, an omnipresent fixture in the landscape of her insular habitat.

Also Constant was the feedbag—a swollen, greasy paper sack that rode shotgun beside her. The sack sat in the passenger seat in an ancient and hallowed pool of slime, the oil of a million burgers, and a billion chicken fingers,and trillions of french fries and onion rings. The bag changed from time to time—sometimes it was white with stripes, and sometimes it had this logo, or that other logo. But there was Always a bag, and the bag was Always. She drove with one hand drooped over the steering wheel, and with the other hand, she reached blindly into the bag.

Hand to bag, food to face. Hand to bag, food to face.

Her plump, dirty fingers were surprisingly dexterous when it came to unwrapping fast food sandwiches. She could strip a sandwich naked in a second without even looking at it.

Hand to bag, food to face. Fistfuls of floppy fries, jammed into her impatient mouth, mashed between neglected teeth to slip down past an indifferent tongue.

Hand to bag, food to face, Rush Limbaugh. Truck.

It made for a wonderfully simple life. No effort was required of her, and she made none.

Her life went on like that for a long time. She drove on roads, and through parking lots, and over small children and compact cars. She had no destination; in truth, she may have been unaware of the fact that the semi-truck was even moving at all. There were bumps every now and then, when she hit something, or ran someone over, but she was accustomed to the jostling. The collisions were Always, and she paid little heed to them.

The rest of the world, for the most part, paid no more attention to the Unobservant Trucker than she paid to them. They were aware of her; they heard stories and saw the images on the news: the Unobservant Trucker had crashed into such and such and killed this many people. They might even offer up a brief expression of sympathy for the victims, but even so, the lifeless faces of the people killed were just the faces of strangers, and thus as easily ignored and forgotten as bug-guts on a windshield. The threat of the Unobservant Trucker was remote and distant; she was a boogeyman, a phantom that was simply not worth the effort. After all, there were important things to do in their busy busy lives; there were things to buy, and things to sell, and there was food, and television. They took no notice of the Unobservant Trucker—until the day she crashed into St. Mary’s Home for Terminally Ill Orphans of War, killing one hundred ninety-seven people and injuring a small duck.

The entire world was angry about that duck.

It was decided, at that point, that everyone ought to form an opinion. However, no one actually cared quite enough to consider the situation carefully. Fortunately for the people, some enterprising individuals contrived two opposing viewpoints, 1 and 2, Pro-trucker and Anti-trucker, a binary choice designed to provide the illusion of free thought. These two possible belief systems were disseminated amongst the people, and the people latched on to them like babes at a teat.

“Kill her!” the Anti-truckers screamed. “Burn her! She’s a monster and must be destroyed!”

“It’s not her fault!” the Pro-truckers protested. “She’s not responsible for her own life. No one is! We are all just victims!”

“Think of the children!”

“Think of the mothers!”

“War!”

“Peace!”

“Death!”

“Love!”

“Ducks!”

The many screaming voices merged into a nightmarish cacophony. Eager to display their awareness and intelligence, the people wrote short statements about their chosen opinion on small slips of paper, and threw the slips of paper into the streets. Now they could pick up a random slip of paper left by someone else, and read the opinion expressed therein. There were only two possibilities after all, and so there was always a fifty percent chance of picking up a slip with the ‘correct’ opinion on it. In this case, a person would jump up and down with happiness. On the other hand, ‘wrong’ opinions elicited threats of violence and expressions of hatred. In the meantime, while the people wrote their selected opinion upon slips of paper and threw them away, the Unobservant Trucker drove her truck through a poor neighborhood in Milwaukee, killing thirty-seven people.

No one noticed; they were too busy with their paper opinions.

The Unobservant Trucker, for her part, went on feeding herself. The cab of the truck was littered with the corpses of dead cheeseburgers, yellowed paper husks filled with molding chunks of pasteurized processed cheese food. The bones of a hundred thousand breaded severed chicken’s legs rattled under Rush Limbaugh’s voice. The Unobservant Trucker trembled; her God the Constant Always, Rush Limbaugh, was angry about something. He yelled and played sound clips; he delivered mighty apocalyptic warnings and prophesies of doom and destruction; he answered calls, and disconnected calls. The Unobservant Trucker couldn’t understand the things he said, or the context in which he phrased them, but she could sense the turbulent emotional undercurrents in his speech, and she was much disturbed. She sank down lower in the driver’s seat. Her eating hand smashed into the Feed Bag faster and harder. She wolfed down tacos, one after the other, faster and faster, until she almost choked.

The truck crashed through the gates of a zoo, and barreled down the sidewalks. Fifty-three people died beneath her wheels.

Handtomouthhandtomouthhandtomouth.

The truck swerved into the panda compound, where a pregnant panda sat munching upon a piece of bamboo. The panda’s compound was her entire world, a universe in microcosm. Her keepers played soft music over the loudspeakers, and the music was Constant. She liked the music. She never payed much attention to the strange creatures that drifted past her compound; they seemed little more than confusing images, filtered through the bars of her cage. She focused upon her bamboo; stalk to mouth, stalk to mouth, stalk to mouth.

The Unobservant Trucker ran her over. The panda splattered across the grill of the semi, smearing black and white and red all over.

And Rush Limbaugh screamed, and the People threw papers.

At last the President of the United States cut through the madness. He interrupted a gameshow to address the People via their television boxes.

“My fellow Americans,” he said, “I know that you’re frightened, and angry. Don’t worry; this problem will be dealt with immediately. I’ve ordered an immediate drone strike against this truck-driving terrorist. We will attempt to minimize collateral damage as much as possible; but in the end, the important thing is to neutralize this threat. This person in this truck is a danger to you, a danger to me, and a danger to panda bears. It is our duty as Americans to use powerful weaponry to protect small animals.”

The Unobservant Trucker drove on, completely ignorant of the sleek black drones that hunted her. Rush Limbaugh played sound clips of the President’s speech, and he yelled and yelled.

The trucker cried, for she was afraid.

Twenty-three jet powered killers shot through the air, aiming for the truck.

Rush ranted on, expressing his distaste for the president, and every political policy he had ever made. He yelled louder and louder, with such passion that he spit on the microphone hard enough to produce audible pops and cracks.

The Unobservant Trucker’s godly fear overwhelmed her. She pulled over, and stopped her truck in a pre-school playground. She stumbled out of the semi and fell to the ground, on her hands and knees, begging Lord Limbaugh to forget his wrath. With hands clasped in front of her heart, she prayed to Lord Limbaugh, and this was her prayer:

“Stop screaming, please, I’m sorry Rush, I’m sorry. Please be happy with me.”

A small voice mewed nearby, as if in answer to her prayers. It was not the voice of God Limbaugh; but no one else existed. So where was the voice coming from?

She traced the small voice to it’s source, and it’s source was strange.

It was—soft, and fleshy. It looked kind of like the Unobservant Trucker, but it was smaller, much smaller. It almost seemed to be wearing clothes, but they were different from the Unobservant Trucker’s clothes; they were smaller, and cleaner, and had little flowers and bright shapes printed on them. The Unobservant Trucker could not see the bottom half of the small fleshy thing, because the semi truck was parked on top of the thing. The front tire on the driver’s side rested on the thing’s middle. Blood and pink slimy things oozed out from under the tire.

The fleshy thing made more noises. The Unobservant Trucker knelt beside it.

“Help me,” the thing said. “My tummy hurts.”

Now the Unobservant Trucker saw, and observed. She was no longer Unobservant. She saw everything. The veil of her self-absorbed ignorance fell away. She cried.

There were other people. Real people.

And she had hurt them.

The little broken took hold of the Enlightened Trucker’s hand.

“Don’t cry,” she said. “We’re going to heaven.”

“I don’t understand,” the Enlightened Trucker said.

“Look up in the sky,” the broken thing said. “See the angels? They came to take us to God.”

The Enlightened Trucker looked towards the sky. A barrage of missiles flew towards them, propelled by flaming rockets, like a shower of falling stars.

The Enlightened Trucker smiled, and gripped the girl’s hand.

The girl was already dead.

The missiles hit their target.

And the People cheered as the playground blew up. They watched the burning and the death through the dirty screens of their phones and tablets and televisions, much as the Unobservant Trucker had stared through her windshield. They wrote more opinions on slips of paper and flushed the paper opinions down toilets and tossed them from windows. The People were very satisfied with themselves, for they lived within themselves the way a goldfish lives in it’s bowl.

Noise. Food. Self.

Hand to mouth. Hand to mouth.

Hand to mouth.

***

Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed it. If you didn’t like it very much at all, then go write your own books and don’t bother me. Either way, please leave a review! Reviews are the lifeblood of indie authors. Each review, whether good or bad, helps to make our work more visible. Thanks!

Until next time folks.

Cheers!

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Austin Malcome eats too much ramen. He is the author of “The Noo Advenshurs of Tom Thumb,” “That Time That Guy Found A Sock That Turned Him Into A Sexy Rob Schneider,” and the sci-fi adventure series “Dr. Bloch’s Great Momentosphere.” He is a Libra, and is slightly awesome. But only slightly.

Stay in touch with the author via:

The Originashuns Blog: https://originashuns.wordpress.com

Facebook: www.facebook.com/AustinMalcome/

Shakespir: https://Shakespir.com/profile/view/CapnRelay


The Unobservant Trucker

This super-short story is about nothing and has no meaning.

  • ISBN: 9781370710539
  • Author: Austin Malcome
  • Published: 2017-01-02 10:05:07
  • Words: 2037
The Unobservant Trucker The Unobservant Trucker