“I’m a truck man… twitching something foul”
Radio radio, rambo ears up, this is Easy Diesel, driving northbound up the niner.
Look, I don’t know who’s listening out there, but I sure gotta hell of a story to tell.
I was just swinging on a bum load busting a hot bird dog on an east coaster, when I started feeling shat-laced, so I pulled my riggy into a motel in Niagara Falls for an overnighter. I was treating my toots to a hangman’s delight, when I noticed something strange in the room next door.
Every couple of hours there was this red van, it would pull up, drop off 3 or 4 people at a time. Always some tie dyed poncho pushers escorting a couple dazed looking ingenues, leading them in the room in their trance-like state.
At first I thought this was just a lewd game of blind man’s finger, but then I realized.. All these people were going in, but none were coming out. There must have been 30 or 40 people in that one small room, that ain’t right.
I decided this needed a man’s investigation.
I stood outside their door but heard nothing. I banged on a cinder block with a shovel for a while, but nobody peered out the window. Somehow that room seemed to be empty.
The next time that van pulled up and dropped off more disappearing party cargo, I got in my truck and followed it.
A daring exploit to a truck man is like nectar to a bumble bee and my proboscis was twitching something foul.
I stuck a sticker on that van’s dick for about 20 minutes, it pulled off the freeway and then drove me through an intentional community of co-parental homesteaders. All the streets were named after characters from Nora Ephron novels, like Sam Road, Rob Street, Julie Way.
I continued following as it cut through a dark, wooded stretch, until it opened up to a manicured estate, crowned by a glorious mansion with a backdrop of scary orchards.
The van pulled up the drive and into a garage. I parked my semi behind a bush so nobody could see it, and I crept up behind the mansion. I waited by a back service door until a chef came out to smoke a beady, and before he could see me, I pounced, knocked him out cold with a pile driver. I slowly removed his clothes with my switchblade and rolled his naked body under a nearby canoe.
I put on his chef suit and blended myself into the kitchen, which should come as no surprise since I was once a profiterole runner on a Kentucky cruise ship in my youth.
Anyway, after pumping out some bread loafs in the shape of baby dolls with the boys, I snuck out into the hallway, to find out more about here what going on satanic baloney was afoot.
It was rich shit like I’d never dreamed of, I musta passed 3 or 4 robots and a buncha bins full of free pumpkins.
I reached a huge metal door, like something you might find in a rich man’s sewer, an engraving read “Operation Midnight Fog”. I pushed it open and there I was roosting my beef in a massive abandoned opera house, all Argento like, blistering with decay, but crawling with activity.
Under the proscenium was dozens of fine young sleepy ladies and gents with wires and tubes sticking out of their heads, leading out the back to running mill wheels and coggle engines connecting to log rides that feed into smokin chemical drums that lined the brinks of industrial water farms guarded by dirty people with sticks. There was beeping, and steam sounds, and scientists with white lab coats and even whiter dreads. They had those scooby doo marijuana rings under their eyes, and they kept communication in scientific code [zack].
Holy Bocephus, I stumbled upon an infernal project. Here was secret high society, experimenting on innocent human beings, extracting the fog of souls to be used as some sort of super drug. I wasn’t sure about the extent of their plan, so I consulted the tarot… from my pocket I pulled a card: the wheel of crabs. This could only mean one thing, these rusted root bilderbergs are about to release this midnight misty fog into the water supply. That’s some ass in the jackpot now.
I was about to snap some pics to send to Washington, but then one of the guards noticed I was wearing footwear, and I knew I was busted. Chasing commenced, I knocked over a flaming sconce to screw em up, and then I escaped through the ductwork, exiting two stories down right into a pony corral. I got in my truck and I sure didn’t turn around.
I got nobody else to tell all this to you but y’all, no one’s gonna believe me, I got a hunched back and bad habit of huffing bug spray.
And now as I sing my spit into cb radio land, this whole night has got me thinking about the dynamics of power. High society is always stooping so low, and the low always tryin to be that hiiiigh society.
Y’all make no mistake, right about now the real power in this country, is flower power. And they won’t stop until we’re all humming their tune.
But don’t you worry truckers, our time in power will come soon. Just don’t drink the water, and just keep truckin’ on.