Well, well. Kudos to you Special Agent Lopez. It’s been quite the journey for both of us, and here we are. Finally face to face. May I call you Jillian? After all, you obviously know so much about me. It’s almost as if we were old friends, no?
But yes, yes. You think you know everything, don’t you? Oh, but you’ve barely scratched the surface. Oh my, yes. Jillian, how many victims of mine have you accounted for? Really? Is that all? Well I’m afraid that I regret to inform you that I have some secrets yet to share. Mmm, oh yes.
Perhaps I shall start at the beginning. The first time happened in Ridgeland, Georgia. It was a late night when it happened. The road was wet from a passing squall, and I was quite tired as I drove my Prius along I-95. The calming tones of National Public Radio soothing me; I was simply minding my own business when all of a sudden a truck cut me off, red brake lights flashing like the devil’s eyes. The shock of the near collision sending me careening off into the breakdown lane. I shall never forget the experience. It was a massive, red pickup. Some kind of F-150 or what have you, some classic colossal penis substitute.
Jillian, I was quite upset by this set of events. A goodly portion of my emotion was certainly fear; some discomfort from my soiled briefs, but a majority was my blinding rage. After taking a moment to collect myself and replace my drawers, I pulled back onto the highway for a short time, and then pulled off in search of a rest stop.
And imagine my luck: at the very first rest stop I came across, there was that same big, red pickup truck. It was parked out behind a dilapidated truck stop, by a dumpster. I parked next to the truck immediately. I was going to give this man a piece of my mind!
The parking lot was deserted, it was quite late after all. But when I got out of the car and walked over to him, he walked by me brusquely; hitting my shoulder with his own. And he said under his breath: “Sorry about yore drivin’, faggot.”
Can you believe it? *I* was not the one who made the error! And why did he assume I was a homosexual? Because I drove a hybrid? Because I care, strongly about gas mileage and sustainability? I was enraged. Not only did this, this...primitive almost kill me on the interstate not ten minutes before, but now he laughs at me and insults me? I’d never felt such, I guess “road rage” before in my life.
It was then that my eyes fell upon them, hanging from his trailer hitch. They were bugglegum pink and they swayed slightly in the breeze, like a ripe peach. Or peaches, as the case may be.
I don’t know what came over me, Jillian. But I bent down, plucked his Trucknutz from beneath his bumper, and proceeded to beat him to death with them.
I went into a fugue state, I think. Everything went red and then white and then reality started to focus again and...there I was, crouched over his broken, bloodied face with a novelty scrotum clutched in my fist. And while you may think me mad, Jillian: as soon as I realized what I had done...I accepted it. I rejoiced. And I knew then what I must do.
To date, I have beaten men, women, and not a few children -teenagers, I mean to say- to death with every colored Trucknut in the rainbow. Green ones, red ones, blue ones, chrome ones, Trucknutz in gold leaf, camouflage, so many of the horrifying ‘flesh’ colored ones. They do not look like flesh, Jillian. at least...not my own.
Why was I never caught? Why, I would simply replace the bloodied bollocks to the trailer hub where I had gotten them and simply...leave. Hiding in plain sight? Not really. It’s just that most police feel the same thing, that most all people feel when they see a set of plastic testicles attached to a pickup truck. Revulsion. Put yourself in the shoes of your typical, rural policeman. It’s three in the morning, you’ve been ripped from your warm bed in your double-wide trailer from your three children (only the last of them born in wedlock), investigating a grisly murder in the pouring rain in the middle of the night in some godforsaken truckstop...”Oh well boy howdy, guess I’ll shine my flashlight around and look for some clues....say, what are those? BALLS? Gross. I’m gonna look over there now.”
Oh, does that sound stupid? But then again Jillian, how long had your special task force been searching for me? If you could go back in time, I’m sure you could find a great many unsolved murders and tie them around my neck if you were to check for fingerprints wrapped around the Truck ‘Vas Deferenz’ of those little plastic novelties.
But I grow weary of this. I know now, the mistake that I had made. There I was, driving the highways so late at night in an effort to fight my little class war all on my own...a losing battle, to be sure. And after so many nights attempting to cleanse the highways of these morons, I am certainly doomed to a life behind bars. And behind these bars, I shall likely find more men of the same caliber who felt that hanging artificial testicles from their vehicles to be so very clever.
I have no one to blame but myself, and only you to congratulate Special Agent Jillian Lopez. Yes, congratulations. Kudos to you. I’m sure you will receive the highest accolades from the FBI, no? perhaps even the President himself will congratulate you for your work. You may rest your weary head tonight, content in knowing that you have made the roads safe once again for people to drive about with plastic testicles.
But I also know this, Jillian. Every time you see a pair swinging from a trailer hitch, or crudly fixed with wire to the bumper of a Hyundai- you will think of me.
And now, I invoke my right to counsel.
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