We Change Your Channel

A blue truck comes dancing over the dirt path towards us, just as I realize we have made a wrong turn. We are trespassing. It is dark, but I can see the scowl on the driver’s face. He stops five yards away.

“I’m looking for Leroy,” I shout.

He glares back. “You found him just in time, because I was lining up my deer rifle right at your forehead.”

“Frank sent us,” I say, pretending to ignore the introduction.

“I don’t know Frank,” says Leroy. “What do you want?”

Sandie leans out the passenger side and says “Heather sent us, too. We want to spend the night and use your hot tub.”

Leroy rolls his window down all the way, and looks at Sandie. The web has swung in the tides of information; he’s trapped now, so he offers one last threat:

“You can get nekkid and fornicate in my tub, but you can’t come driving at midnight onto my property and not expect a gunblast with no explantion. You’re lucky I held up on the trigger. Because I don’t miss.”

There is a few moments of silence, engines idling, starry sky a-twinkling, and Sandie leans out the window and tells a lie: "Heather says you would never shoot your guests.”

He puts his truck in gear and mutters: “You follow me and put your truck where I tell you to.”

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