Jim Bob Tucker was a redneck trucker and all around good old boy. He wore a stylish trucker’s cap that read, “I Break for Titties” and a sleeveless shirt that showed off a pair of flabby biceps that would have looked better covered up.
He was making good time, so he rewarded himself by tuning to a country station so that he could croon along with one of his favorite songs.
“Oh, I got up in my pick-up truck, the clutch got stuck, I ran over my duck, oh if it weren’t for bad luck I’d have no luck at all…”
Jim Bob paused for a beef jerky break and gnawed on a hunk of dried up meat for a few seconds before carrying on.
“But when I see my sister, oh mister, you know I’ll kiss her, then slap her ass for cheating on me…”
An open cooler sat on the passenger’s seat. Jim Bob reached in, pulled out a beer, popped the top and sipped.
“Because if there’s one place she should keep it, whoa, oh, oh, it’s in the family…keep it in the family! Yessir, keep in the family…”
A siren interrupted the trucker’s good time. Jim Bob checked his mirror and sure enough, a black and white police cruiser was on his tail.
“Shit,” Jim Bob said as he tossed his brew out the window and shut his cooler. “A God damn smokey.”
Jim Bob slowed down, pulled over, and brought his rig to a stop on the shoulder. He then turned off his engine, rolled down his window and fetched his paperwork out of the glove compartment.
Soon enough, a cop with blue eyes and platinum blonde hair was standing outside Jim Bob’s window.
“License and registration.”
“Sure thing, officer,” Jim Bob said as he handed the documents over.
The cop inspected them, then set them down on the dash.
“Step out of the car, sir.”
“I do something wrong, officer?” Jim Bob asked. “Don’t believe I was speeding.”
“Step out of the car,” the cop repeated.
Jim Bob opened the cab door and stepped out.
“Assume the position,” the cop said.
Before Jim Bob could finish his sentence, he was being slammed up against the side of the trailer.
“Shit,” the trucker said as the cop patted him down. “Police brutality!”
“You got any weapons?” the cop asked.
“Just a forty-five in the glove box,” Jim Bob said. “But I got a permit for it on account of my second amendment rights as a God fearing American. Obama wasn’t able to take it way from me in eight years and you won’t either, fella.”
The cop sneered. “What are you hauling?”
“Ladies’ undergarments,” Jim Bob groused as he pointed to the side of his trailer. It was emblazoned with the words, “Funky Cola.”
“Soda pop syrup,” Jim Bob said. “What else?”
“I need to take a look,” the cop said.
“Well shit, Mister,” Jim Bob replied. “I done heard that black fella, what’s his name? Jay Zed? He’s got that song about his ninety-nine problems other than a bitch and he said the back’s locked so you’re gonna need a warrant for that.”
“Damn it,” the cop said. “Foiled again by Jay-Z.”
“You’re darn tootin,” Jim Bob said. “Now if you’re done hassling a decent, hard working, law abiding taxpayer, I’ll be on my way.”
“Not so fast,” the cop said. “We’re going to sit tight right here until I can get a warrant issued.”
Jim Bob shook his head. “How long’s that gonna take?”
“Don’t know,” the cop said. “Hours. At least the whole morning.”
“Ahh hell,” Jim Bob said. “If I’m late the company docks my pay.”
“Not my problem,” the cop said.
“Aww screw it,” Jim Bob said as he walked toward the back of the trailer with the cop behind him. “What do I give a shit? It’s just a bunch of bags of sticky goo that will give you diabetes. It’s just the principle of the thing is all.”
Jim Bob fumbled with the keys on his ring until he found the right one.
“I do not take kindly to being treated like a common hoodlum when there are plenty of Al Qaedas out there that you could be chasing,” Jim Bob said as he unlocked a padlock.
The trucker opened the door and walked in, followed by the cop.
Inside the trailer, the cop and the trucker found themselves surrounded by hundreds of cardboard boxes marked “Funky Cola.”
“Here you go,” Jim Bob said. “I don’t know what you thought you were gonna find back here, Mr. Big Shot, but as you can see I got no drugs or guns or illegal Mexicans or what have you. Just Funky Cola juice and plenty of it.”
The cop looked around.
“You got your regular Funky Cola,” Jim Bob said. “That’s the most popular. Then you got your Orange Funk, Cherry Funk, Grape Funk, Strawberry Funk, Fruity Funk, and Diet Funk for those watching their waistline.”
The cop took a knife off of his utility belt, then used it to cut one of the boxes open.
“Damn it,” Jim Bob said. “Be careful, will you?”
The cop pulled out a thick, heavy plastic bag filled with brown liquid. Printed out the side were the words, “Funky Cola – Syrup for Type 881P Soda Fountain Dispenser.”
“Where’s this all headed?” the cop asked.
“Wombat World,” Jim Bob answered. “Been doing a delivery there every Monday for twenty years. Those tourists sure love to get hopped up on this shit.”
The cop laughed. “The theme park?”
“Yup,” Jim Bob said as he turned his back on the officer and continued to walk through the trailer. “Goofy place.”
“Is it now?” the cop asked as he pulled out his pistol.
“Sure is,” Jim Bob said. “Bunch of dummies standing around in the hot sun taking pictures of themselves with some jackass in a wombat costume. Never cared for it much myself.”
“Is that so?” the cop asked as he attached a silencer to his pistol.
“Yup,” Jim Bob said. “Though my kids always go bonkers for it.”
“You have kids?” the cop asked.
“Yes sir,” Jim Bob said. “Four little varmints.”
The trucker turned around to find himself staring at a silenced pistol pointed straight at his face.
“Pity,” the cop said.
Tap. Tap. While barely making a sound, the cop put two silenced shots through Jim Bob’s head, sending the trucker to the floor of the trailer in a heap.
The cop smiled, then holstered his weapon. He then took out a plastic case. Inside, there was a hypodermic needle filled with a green liquid.
The needle pierced the plastic soda syrup bag easily. The cop pressed down on the plunger ever so slightly, then pulled the needle out. He then opened up another box, took out a soda syrup bag, injected it, and then repeated the process for awhile.
The silence was interrupted when the cop’s phone rang. He answered.
“Brother Klaus?” came a synthesized voice on the other end of the line.
“Guten Morgen, Herr Heretic,’ the cop said in German accent.
“Is your mission complete?” the Heretic asked.
“Performing the injections now,” Brother Klaus answered.
“Splendid,” the Heretic said.
After the phone call ended, Brother Klaus spent about an hour injecting every soda syrup bag in the truck.
Once his evil task was complete, he emerged from the back of the trailer, not in his police officer uniform, but rather, in the clothes that Jim Bob had been wearing – jeans, sleeveless shirt, and last but not least, the infamous “I Brake for Titties” cap.
Brother Klaus walked around the length of the trailer, hopped up into the cab, found the key on the ring he pilfered from his victim and started the rig. He pulled out into traffic and headed up the highway for awhile before getting on Jim Bob’s CB radio.
“Wombat World central dispatch,” Brother Klaus said in a southern accent. “Y’all got your ears on?”
A few seconds passed before a man replied. “Ten-four, good buddy, what’s your twenty?”
“About fifteen ticks out and ready to drop off a fresh batch of soda pop goo,” Brother Klaus replied.
“Ten-four,” the dispatcher replied. “Come on in. We’ll leave the light on for you.”
“Much obliged,” Brother Klaus said. “Over and out.”
Brother Klaus put down the radio, then noticed Jim Bob’s beer cooler sitting on the front seat.
“Don’t mind if I do,” the cultist said in his default German accent as he took out a beer and popped the top.