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Ass, Grass, or Cash: No One Rides for Free

©2012 Raminar Dixon

This work of fiction is intended for mature audiences only. All characters represented within are eighteen years of age or older and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. This work is property of Raminar Dixon, please do not reproduce illegally.



“Lord, it is hot today,” I complained to the stifling, summer Texas air.

I kicked the tires on my broken-down rust bucket of a car and wiped the dripping sweat off my brow. Thick black smoke rolled out of the engine, streaming straight upwards and into the heavens. The little Nissan had made it a grand total of seventy miles outside my Podunk hometown of Danvers, a mere fourteen-hundred miles short of my destination.

“Where in the hell am I?” I wondered, and pulled out the faded old map that I had grabbed at the gas station before heading out.

I followed the route I had draw out, following the thin line of the six fifty-four out of Danvers and into the desert. From the looks of things, I was deep in the middle of nowhere.

“Shit.”

I folded the map up hastily and took another look under the open hood of the car. The smoke had started to wane, but the toxic-smelling odor from whatever was burning wasn’t going anywhere. Upon closer inspection, I could see that the entire top part of the motor was encased in a layer of black crud. The Nissan had officially seen its last road trip.

I pulled out the cell phone my friend had given me as a going away present and dialed the operator. Color me surprised when, of course, there was no signal. What did I expect? The tallest things around here were the cactus.

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