Macon, Georgia

I once had a job as a furniture mover (we prefer “relocation specialist”) which, as you might guess, required a lot of travel. This particular summer found me at a truck stop about twenty miles outside Macon, Georgia.

I used some of my advance for the day to get myself cleaned up, eat a fine meal, and replace my copy of Black Sabbath’s ‘Paranoid’ on tape.

Since there is really fuck else to do at a truck stop, aside from play video poker or read the dirty graffiti in the bathroom stalls, I took a well-deserved nap.

It was during this nap that I had a dream about a rogue wind, a separate entity from the jet stream which, for some unknown reason, had it out for me.

In the dream I was walking down the street when it screamed down upon me like an eagle. Had it not been for a small sapling, I would have been carried away by this vicious breeze and evaporated.

After many narrow escapes, I finally convinced a group of scientists to aid me in my plight. They constructed a large underground shelter to keep me safe while they invented a way to trap it. Instead, the wind managed to find a tiny hole in the structure, one no larger than the period at the end of this sentence, and with much shrieking and fury, it wormed its way into the bunker and sought me out with a terrific scream.

It was in the process of stealing my breath when I woke with a start — the AC in the rig was on full blast and I was freezing to death. I struggled into my battered Docs and fell out of the cab into the warm Georgia night, my bones already beginning to thaw. I took a healthy spattering piss near the back of the trailer, grateful to be alive.

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