By Jess Butcher
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Review & Description
VAN-Go (Lexington Avenue Express - Short Fiction - Strong Language)
"Do you get it or not?" the rookie driver snickered, pointing at the windowless, paint-splattered van in the passing lane.
"Yeah, yeah, I get it, you idiot; Van-Go. Another friggin' California house-painter thinks he's an artist. Real clever," Kernoodle said, peeking through the curtain of the eighteen-wheeler's sleeper compartment.
"Them guys ought'a cut off an ear and give it to the customer, what they charge to paint trim and gutters these days. Get it? Van-Go; cut off an ear, give it to the customer."
"Will you shut the fuck up," Dale Kernoodle shouted from the sleeper, jerking the curtain open this time and glaring menacingly at the rookie driver. "I don't want to hear another word out of you till we hit the scales west of Winnemucca, you understand?"
"Okay. Shit man," the young driver muttered under his breath as Kernoodle yanked the curtain shut, "I just thought you'd think it was funny, that's all. Van-fuckin'-Go, a Goddamn house-painter," he snickered.
Dale Dog Kernoodle was a legend at Pacific Container Carriers. He'd joined the company as a green driver in 1978 and had personally logged more than three million accident-free miles over the course of his career.
Kernoodle's new co-driver was at the wheel of Cur-Dog V. The black, 600-horsepower Mack was Dog's pride and joy, complete with the likeness of a snarling bulldog painted on each side of the hood. The fearsome image of the vicious bulldog, teeth bared, straining at the leash, matched Kernoodle's reputation among West Coast drivers.
"Is it true what they say about you, Dog?" the young driver asked as he wiped his nose on his shirtsleeve. The task was made considerably more difficult by the nose-ring hanging from the cartilage separating his nostrils.
No answer.
"They say you've gone through at least a dozen team-drivers in the last ten years," he continued, looking over his shoulder, talking to the curtain. He removed one hand from the steering wheel and flicked at a drop of moisture hanging from his nose jewelry.
Still no answer.
"I heard you've roughed a couple of guys up real bad, even choked a couple of 'em out-- SHIT!" he screamed, his conversation with the curtain was interrupted by a BMW sedan that cut sharply in front of him then abruptly braked for an interstate exit. He vented his anger with a long blast on the Mack's air horn.
VAN-Go (Lexington Avenue Express - Short Fiction - Strong Language)
"Do you get it or not?" the rookie driver snickered, pointing at the windowless, paint-splattered van in the passing lane.
"Yeah, yeah, I get it, you idiot; Van-Go. Another friggin' California house-painter thinks he's an artist. Real clever," Kernoodle said, peeking through the curtain of the eighteen-wheeler's sleeper compartment.
"Them guys ought'a cut off an ear and give it to the customer, what they charge to paint trim and gutters these days. Get it? Van-Go; cut off an ear, give it to the customer."
"Will you shut the fuck up," Dale Kernoodle shouted from the sleeper, jerking the curtain open this time and glaring menacingly at the rookie driver. "I don't want to hear another word out of you till we hit the scales west of Winnemucca, you understand?"
"Okay. Shit man," the young driver muttered under his breath as Kernoodle yanked the curtain shut, "I just thought you'd think it was funny, that's all. Van-fuckin'-Go, a Goddamn house-painter," he snickered.
Dale Dog Kernoodle was a legend at Pacific Container Carriers. He'd joined the company as a green driver in 1978 and had personally logged more than three million accident-free miles over the course of his career.
Kernoodle's new co-driver was at the wheel of Cur-Dog V. The black, 600-horsepower Mack was Dog's pride and joy, complete with the likeness of a snarling bulldog painted on each side of the hood. The fearsome image of the vicious bulldog, teeth bared, straining at the leash, matched Kernoodle's reputation among West Coast drivers.
"Is it true what they say about you, Dog?" the young driver asked as he wiped his nose on his shirtsleeve. The task was made considerably more difficult by the nose-ring hanging from the cartilage separating his nostrils.
No answer.
"They say you've gone through at least a dozen team-drivers in the last ten years," he continued, looking over his shoulder, talking to the curtain. He removed one hand from the steering wheel and flicked at a drop of moisture hanging from his nose jewelry.
Still no answer.
"I heard you've roughed a couple of guys up real bad, even choked a couple of 'em out-- SHIT!" he screamed, his conversation with the curtain was interrupted by a BMW sedan that cut sharply in front of him then abruptly braked for an interstate exit. He vented his anger with a long blast on the Mack's air horn.
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