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non-confrontational sixty, immediately rendering himself invisible in the process. There was no reason to draw unnecessary attention by driving too fast. By the time the police arrived at the rest stop and finished sorting out what exactly had happened, he would be home, relaxing on his couch, drinking beer, and watching porn.
    Sweat poured from Martin’s body. His hands were slick with it as he tried to grasp the steering wheel, and his t-shirt was plastered uncomfortably to his back. He was rattled. He had been doing this for well over three years now, had taken over a dozen girls using this exact method, and, in all that time, had never suffered even a single close call. Until now.
    Martin Krall had always lived his life by a few, hard-and-fast rules, the first of which was this reality: overestimating the stupidity of the average American traveler was nearly impossible. Finally, he had run across a traveler who actually paid attention to his surroundings, and to top it off, the guy was carrying a gun!
    Martin forced himself to maintain his sedate pace. Cars passed him in the left lane in a nearly continuous stream, but he paid them no attention. He focused on slowing his breathing, reducing his heart rate. He had been shaking, adrenaline flooding through his body after the narrow escape, and now the resulting crash was making him feel logy and slow. He felt like he could sleep for twenty-four hours.
    Before long, Martin would arrive at his exit. He was anxious to get home where he could relax and begin deciphering what had gone wrong and, more importantly, how he could ensure nothing like this ever happened again. Thinking of home reminded him that, for the first time ever, he was returning from a hunting expedition empty-handed and alone, and Martin felt a seething rage bubbling inside him. It lurked just below the surface, hidden beneath his carefully constructed veneer of quiet control, but it was very much present and anxious to break loose. He was once again that helpless high school freshman, the geek with no friends, the skinny kid stuffed into a locker, and he felt the helpless fury he had experienced so often growing up and thought he would never have to suffer through again.
    Just who the hell did that self-righteous, interfering busybody think he was, anyway? Why couldn’t he play by the same rules as everyone else and just mind his own business, walk around in a daze staring straight ahead like all the other sheep? Why did he have to pick that exact moment to stop at the rest area for gas or coffee or a burger or to take a crap, anyway? Life was so unfair sometimes, it was ridiculous.
    Martin felt a familiar blackness settling over him. He now had no girl, no one to keep him company and allow him to release his stress over the next seven days, and after this monumental goat-rope, he knew he would have to lay low for a long time. The media would be all over this screw up; it would probably get even more coverage than it would have if he been successful today. The coverage also meant people would be much more careful for a while until they eventually crawled back into their default modes of unseeing and uncaring bliss.
    Martin knew he would have to alter his routine if he wanted to find a playmate and satisfy his contact before the fuss and furor died down; that would take a couple of months and there was no way in the world his contact would be willing to wait that long. Taking a girl from a highway rest stop was going to be practically impossible for a while, and waiting two to three months because of that interfering busybody was simply an unacceptable alternative.
    This will not stand, he vowed to himself through teeth clenched so tightly shut, it made his jaw ache. It most certainly will not.
    The seeds of an alternative plan began growing in Martin Krall’s head, and he smiled and nodded, all alone inside his box truck. He would have to spend more time fully developing the idea he was considering,