How safe do you feel in your car, driving down the interstate at seventy five miles per hour?
You probably feel pretty secure. What have you encountered on the open road that stirs a sense of alarm in your brain? Not a whole lot, I'd imagine. Maybe a semi with his hazard lights on because the trucker is tired and needs a few winks before he starts driving again. He's keeping other people safe and doing the responsible thing. Perhaps a deer jaunted out in front of your vehicle once, and you slammed in to her pretty little head with your cruise control on, spattering gray matter all over the well-paved roads of your home state.
My point is, you don't really think much about outside threats when you're in your car. As long as you drive defensively, obey the law, and mind your own shit, then your chances of ending up dead are slim to none, right?
I thought so too, until a few nights ago. I don't really know how they came up with the idea. Some sick fuck actually planned all this out in his living room, or basement, or torture lair. I'd probably go with the latter. That's the part that really irks me and grinds my gears. The fact that they pull it off, right out here in the open.... well, that just makes it worse, really.
It takes me a couple of hours to drive from my friend's house across the state line back to my own place. I'll head up there and visit him for a weekend every couple months or so. He's a good guy and we try to stay in touch. We had a nice, relaxing weekend for the most part. He gave me his best wishes and told me to be careful on my way back. How many times do you hear that? You've got your keys in your hand, your iPhone in your pocket, and you're ready to make like a baby and head out. The last person you see before you walk out the door says, simply, "Be careful."
It's good advice, believe me.
I was totally zoned out and I didn't realize what was happening until it was too late. When I take a long trip, I play entire albums, straight through, with the volume cranked all the way up. I'm so engrossed in thought, in my own little world, that I don't pay attention to vehicles around me. The first thing I would notice would be an asshole tail-gating me in the left lane so he can do ninety, but they were discreet. They stayed on the right, using the shoulder to pass if they had to so they were never right behind me in my rearview mirror. They waited until we were the only two cars around. It was a deserted stretch of highway that was neither here nor there.... no exits, no trees, just flat farmland and the thin light of a half summer moon.
Remember the Volkswagen vans that were a popular choice among stoner hippies during Vietnam? This one was charcoal black, rusted out at various parts of the body and chassis. It sounded like a stampede rumbling through a canyon when it got close to you. I FELT it, over my Alpine speakers that were thumping double bass riffs and face-melting guitar leads to my very core. I turned to look out my window, but the heavy tint prevented me from seeing the infernal rumblecage that was coming up fast on my right. Right around the time my power windows got all the way down, the driver was waiting, a vicious looking grin on his face. He wasn't even watching the road, and neither was I.... for a brief moment, we both stared at each other. He looked glad to see me. His face was absolutely unreal. My left side hit the ingrained tire treads built in to the pavement for the people that fall asleep at the wheel, but I barely noticed that I was careening off the edge of the road, or the gyrating protests of my vehicle as it rolled over the bumps at such a high speed. I could only stare, with the sound of Pantera blazing in my ears.
The first thing I noticed, mostly because it was entirely out of place, was the tophat. His skin was ghostly pale, a snow white color that stood out in sharp contrast to the dark brim of the hat. He had more than one passenger, and they were all right next to him, trying to catch a glimpse of me. They were all bathed in an odd, red light. The interior of their van looked like it was a mobile dark room for developing photographs. This was all unsettling, and I was still doing eighty, about to breach the edge of the pavement and hit the grassy median between the two-lane highways.
I caught myself in time to swerve back over to my lane, but the van was coming over in to my slot, parallel with me, blocking me from getting back. I was starting to get pissed off. I have a mild case of road rage, not particularly worse than most people who are being fucked with, but I'd about had it with the punk at that point. I floored the accelerator and tried to get in front of them, but they stayed right with me. We were almost trading paint, and a retaining wall was coming up. If I didn't stop, I was going to hit it head-on and do their dirty work for them.
I never had the opportunity to even think about mashing the brakes.
I wish I never bought a car with a sunroof. Moreover, I wish I hadn't been in the mood to act so pretentious, rolling around with it wide open on the highway past midnight. You don't really think about dangers from above when you're in your vehicle, right? Pretty much anything in front of or in a radius around you, like that upcoming retaining wall, would be your primary concern. Two things happened in that next instant. They weren't in slow motion. Before I knew it, I was fucked three kinds of sideways.
Some strong, burly guy scooped me up out of the driver's seat from the top of my moving vehicle like I was a ragdoll. In the same moment, another small guy who was literally dressed like a scarecrow fell in to my passenger seat. As my seatbelt tore in half from the pressure he was exerting on it, the small guy slid over as I was being lifted up. The last time I ever saw my car, it was being veered back in to the left hand lane by Scarecrow Guy, and he was flashing me the most wicked grin I've ever seen in my life.
I wish I could accurately describe to you how it is that I managed to end up in the back of this van, but I really can't. However they did it, these....things..... have road-napped me. If that term doesn't exist, then I'm inventing it as of right now.
We've been ambling along at around the same speed for a long time. I don't know where we're going, but I know no one will ever know what happened. My car will end up in some deserted spot where I've never set foot before. My remains probably will, too.
They're sick-minded fucks. They have me rigged in the back of this thing, and they won't stop prodding me with these hooked metal objects. I think they're old-school grass cutting sickles. I'm bleeding all over the place, but that's the least of my worries, to be honest. They have much, much more painful hooks, embedded in my skin at the shoulder-blades, my calves, my neck muscles....everywhere. The hooks are jerry-rigged to sliding coat racks on the roof of the van, and they scream loudly with the deafening sound of metal against metal when we hit a pot-hole. My skin is starting to stretch out, because my feet weren't touching the floor of the van a short while ago. Now, I'm almost flat footed, but my vision is going blurry. I can't say for sure yet, but I think these scarecrow people aren't exactly PEOPLE. They can't be human, there's no way.
They have smiles that are permeated with long, thin silver rails. Maybe they're metal, or maybe they're actually a part of their anatomy, I'm not sure. There's a small one, and he's being playful with me.... he bites in to my leg or my forearm every now and then, and a minute ago, he just sheared off a piece of my love handle and shoved it in to his mouth. He's chewing like my bloody chunk of skin is a piece of Bubble Yum. At least someone here is happy.
They're rubbing iodine all over my body now.... my cheeks, my chest, my legs, everywhere. My skin is a dark, sickly brown, and the smell is terrible. They're pressed some kind of switch, and the hooks have released me to the bottom of the van for whatever demented purpose they hold for me.
I wish I could resist, knock one of them out, or maybe grab one of their sickles and take a few with me, but I can't. As soon as I hit the floor of the death-bus, they've got metal pinpoints depressing with brutal force in to various places. If I made any sudden movements or try to rise up, I'll cut myself to ribbons doing so.
The little road-napper is standing over my head, and I know what's happening, now. I thought the hooks were painful. The pliers that he's shoving in to my mouth taste like they've been rusting for a hundred years. He's got the first two teeth out before I even have a chance to scream. I have to keep swallowing and spitting, because if I don't, I'll asphyxiate and perish from the tsunami of blood that's gushing out of my mouth and down my windpipe. Have you ever noticed that blood tastes awfully similar to metal?
They're still not finished. The first metal sliver has been shoved in to the cavity where my incisor used to be, and it's protruding out of my mouth downward over my bottom lip. I've decided to play a little game to keep my occupied while they replace the rest of my teeth. I'm poking my own chin with my new dental surgery. I've always been an optimist. If I get pimples on my lower face, at least I can pop them with my metal-jaws.
I know what the iodine was for now. The red light, the brown preserving fluid, they all serve a purpose. They've stripped me naked and re-clothed me in some dusty, rotted black rags like the rest of them are wearing. For being so damn loud on the outside, this rolling prison is deathly silent, save for the flying sparks, power tools, and the ear-splitting sound of metal rubbing metal. That sound sucks, but you get used to it.
Let me tell you the worst part of all, though. I can hear the cars around me. We're still on the interstate. I seriously think the driver just signaled for a semi to honk his horn, just for fucking kicks.... to let me know that this is for real. It's been slammed home, now. I know I'll never get out, but you'd be surprised what you're willing to do when your survival is at stake.
I've given up on trying to signal people because they just think I'm a crackhead. No one would help me, and even if they tried, they'd just end up in here themselves, hooked to the rack.
They gave me a mirror to scope out my new look. I look a lot different, but I feel powerful somehow. Like I could get away with anything in the world with these things around me. It's infectious. As painful as it was for ME, I knew they were all getting a hell of a lot of kicks out of slicing me up and making my smile look like a Craftsman commercial.
They say if you can't beat them, join them, and let's be realistic here. My car is gone, and I'll never get away. Why not have a little fun since I'm stuck here? They say you're judged by the company you keep. Hang around nuns, and you'll eventually take your vows. Spend a lot of time around drug dealers? You're probably an addict.
We've taken a few already, and our road entourage has grown by two vehicles. I can see my car behind us, and it's still being driven by the same guy who jacked it before. There's also a Jetta, an Accord, and a Corvette. Stylish, just like the gleam of moonlight on their gnashing metal maws.
I'm the front man in the next road-nap sting. They're all looking pretty hungry. I've got a bit of an appetite myself, but I don't think this one will survive. We're starving, and our van is getting a little full. We don't have room for one more, but I sure would like to sit in a new car as some hapless schmuck is being taken from it, to the most gruesome fate you could possibly imagine.
Even though you know it's coming, I hope it's you.
Be careful.
-Credited to Violent Harvest
You probably feel pretty secure. What have you encountered on the open road that stirs a sense of alarm in your brain? Not a whole lot, I'd imagine. Maybe a semi with his hazard lights on because the trucker is tired and needs a few winks before he starts driving again. He's keeping other people safe and doing the responsible thing. Perhaps a deer jaunted out in front of your vehicle once, and you slammed in to her pretty little head with your cruise control on, spattering gray matter all over the well-paved roads of your home state.
My point is, you don't really think much about outside threats when you're in your car. As long as you drive defensively, obey the law, and mind your own shit, then your chances of ending up dead are slim to none, right?
I thought so too, until a few nights ago. I don't really know how they came up with the idea. Some sick fuck actually planned all this out in his living room, or basement, or torture lair. I'd probably go with the latter. That's the part that really irks me and grinds my gears. The fact that they pull it off, right out here in the open.... well, that just makes it worse, really.
It takes me a couple of hours to drive from my friend's house across the state line back to my own place. I'll head up there and visit him for a weekend every couple months or so. He's a good guy and we try to stay in touch. We had a nice, relaxing weekend for the most part. He gave me his best wishes and told me to be careful on my way back. How many times do you hear that? You've got your keys in your hand, your iPhone in your pocket, and you're ready to make like a baby and head out. The last person you see before you walk out the door says, simply, "Be careful."
It's good advice, believe me.
I was totally zoned out and I didn't realize what was happening until it was too late. When I take a long trip, I play entire albums, straight through, with the volume cranked all the way up. I'm so engrossed in thought, in my own little world, that I don't pay attention to vehicles around me. The first thing I would notice would be an asshole tail-gating me in the left lane so he can do ninety, but they were discreet. They stayed on the right, using the shoulder to pass if they had to so they were never right behind me in my rearview mirror. They waited until we were the only two cars around. It was a deserted stretch of highway that was neither here nor there.... no exits, no trees, just flat farmland and the thin light of a half summer moon.
Remember the Volkswagen vans that were a popular choice among stoner hippies during Vietnam? This one was charcoal black, rusted out at various parts of the body and chassis. It sounded like a stampede rumbling through a canyon when it got close to you. I FELT it, over my Alpine speakers that were thumping double bass riffs and face-melting guitar leads to my very core. I turned to look out my window, but the heavy tint prevented me from seeing the infernal rumblecage that was coming up fast on my right. Right around the time my power windows got all the way down, the driver was waiting, a vicious looking grin on his face. He wasn't even watching the road, and neither was I.... for a brief moment, we both stared at each other. He looked glad to see me. His face was absolutely unreal. My left side hit the ingrained tire treads built in to the pavement for the people that fall asleep at the wheel, but I barely noticed that I was careening off the edge of the road, or the gyrating protests of my vehicle as it rolled over the bumps at such a high speed. I could only stare, with the sound of Pantera blazing in my ears.
The first thing I noticed, mostly because it was entirely out of place, was the tophat. His skin was ghostly pale, a snow white color that stood out in sharp contrast to the dark brim of the hat. He had more than one passenger, and they were all right next to him, trying to catch a glimpse of me. They were all bathed in an odd, red light. The interior of their van looked like it was a mobile dark room for developing photographs. This was all unsettling, and I was still doing eighty, about to breach the edge of the pavement and hit the grassy median between the two-lane highways.
I caught myself in time to swerve back over to my lane, but the van was coming over in to my slot, parallel with me, blocking me from getting back. I was starting to get pissed off. I have a mild case of road rage, not particularly worse than most people who are being fucked with, but I'd about had it with the punk at that point. I floored the accelerator and tried to get in front of them, but they stayed right with me. We were almost trading paint, and a retaining wall was coming up. If I didn't stop, I was going to hit it head-on and do their dirty work for them.
I never had the opportunity to even think about mashing the brakes.
I wish I never bought a car with a sunroof. Moreover, I wish I hadn't been in the mood to act so pretentious, rolling around with it wide open on the highway past midnight. You don't really think about dangers from above when you're in your vehicle, right? Pretty much anything in front of or in a radius around you, like that upcoming retaining wall, would be your primary concern. Two things happened in that next instant. They weren't in slow motion. Before I knew it, I was fucked three kinds of sideways.
Some strong, burly guy scooped me up out of the driver's seat from the top of my moving vehicle like I was a ragdoll. In the same moment, another small guy who was literally dressed like a scarecrow fell in to my passenger seat. As my seatbelt tore in half from the pressure he was exerting on it, the small guy slid over as I was being lifted up. The last time I ever saw my car, it was being veered back in to the left hand lane by Scarecrow Guy, and he was flashing me the most wicked grin I've ever seen in my life.
I wish I could accurately describe to you how it is that I managed to end up in the back of this van, but I really can't. However they did it, these....things..... have road-napped me. If that term doesn't exist, then I'm inventing it as of right now.
We've been ambling along at around the same speed for a long time. I don't know where we're going, but I know no one will ever know what happened. My car will end up in some deserted spot where I've never set foot before. My remains probably will, too.
They're sick-minded fucks. They have me rigged in the back of this thing, and they won't stop prodding me with these hooked metal objects. I think they're old-school grass cutting sickles. I'm bleeding all over the place, but that's the least of my worries, to be honest. They have much, much more painful hooks, embedded in my skin at the shoulder-blades, my calves, my neck muscles....everywhere. The hooks are jerry-rigged to sliding coat racks on the roof of the van, and they scream loudly with the deafening sound of metal against metal when we hit a pot-hole. My skin is starting to stretch out, because my feet weren't touching the floor of the van a short while ago. Now, I'm almost flat footed, but my vision is going blurry. I can't say for sure yet, but I think these scarecrow people aren't exactly PEOPLE. They can't be human, there's no way.
They have smiles that are permeated with long, thin silver rails. Maybe they're metal, or maybe they're actually a part of their anatomy, I'm not sure. There's a small one, and he's being playful with me.... he bites in to my leg or my forearm every now and then, and a minute ago, he just sheared off a piece of my love handle and shoved it in to his mouth. He's chewing like my bloody chunk of skin is a piece of Bubble Yum. At least someone here is happy.
They're rubbing iodine all over my body now.... my cheeks, my chest, my legs, everywhere. My skin is a dark, sickly brown, and the smell is terrible. They're pressed some kind of switch, and the hooks have released me to the bottom of the van for whatever demented purpose they hold for me.
I wish I could resist, knock one of them out, or maybe grab one of their sickles and take a few with me, but I can't. As soon as I hit the floor of the death-bus, they've got metal pinpoints depressing with brutal force in to various places. If I made any sudden movements or try to rise up, I'll cut myself to ribbons doing so.
The little road-napper is standing over my head, and I know what's happening, now. I thought the hooks were painful. The pliers that he's shoving in to my mouth taste like they've been rusting for a hundred years. He's got the first two teeth out before I even have a chance to scream. I have to keep swallowing and spitting, because if I don't, I'll asphyxiate and perish from the tsunami of blood that's gushing out of my mouth and down my windpipe. Have you ever noticed that blood tastes awfully similar to metal?
They're still not finished. The first metal sliver has been shoved in to the cavity where my incisor used to be, and it's protruding out of my mouth downward over my bottom lip. I've decided to play a little game to keep my occupied while they replace the rest of my teeth. I'm poking my own chin with my new dental surgery. I've always been an optimist. If I get pimples on my lower face, at least I can pop them with my metal-jaws.
I know what the iodine was for now. The red light, the brown preserving fluid, they all serve a purpose. They've stripped me naked and re-clothed me in some dusty, rotted black rags like the rest of them are wearing. For being so damn loud on the outside, this rolling prison is deathly silent, save for the flying sparks, power tools, and the ear-splitting sound of metal rubbing metal. That sound sucks, but you get used to it.
Let me tell you the worst part of all, though. I can hear the cars around me. We're still on the interstate. I seriously think the driver just signaled for a semi to honk his horn, just for fucking kicks.... to let me know that this is for real. It's been slammed home, now. I know I'll never get out, but you'd be surprised what you're willing to do when your survival is at stake.
I've given up on trying to signal people because they just think I'm a crackhead. No one would help me, and even if they tried, they'd just end up in here themselves, hooked to the rack.
They gave me a mirror to scope out my new look. I look a lot different, but I feel powerful somehow. Like I could get away with anything in the world with these things around me. It's infectious. As painful as it was for ME, I knew they were all getting a hell of a lot of kicks out of slicing me up and making my smile look like a Craftsman commercial.
They say if you can't beat them, join them, and let's be realistic here. My car is gone, and I'll never get away. Why not have a little fun since I'm stuck here? They say you're judged by the company you keep. Hang around nuns, and you'll eventually take your vows. Spend a lot of time around drug dealers? You're probably an addict.
We've taken a few already, and our road entourage has grown by two vehicles. I can see my car behind us, and it's still being driven by the same guy who jacked it before. There's also a Jetta, an Accord, and a Corvette. Stylish, just like the gleam of moonlight on their gnashing metal maws.
I'm the front man in the next road-nap sting. They're all looking pretty hungry. I've got a bit of an appetite myself, but I don't think this one will survive. We're starving, and our van is getting a little full. We don't have room for one more, but I sure would like to sit in a new car as some hapless schmuck is being taken from it, to the most gruesome fate you could possibly imagine.
Even though you know it's coming, I hope it's you.
Be careful.
-Credited to Violent Harvest
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