The names, characters, places and events in this story are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. All characters are over the age of 18. Any similarities to real persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
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The big drifter swung down from the truck's cab and waved his thanks. It was twelve noon. The square root of twelve is 3.464. He had exactly $34.64 in his pocket. He liked numbers. He liked short sentences. The trucker had dropped him off by the bus terminal. Over the road he saw a kiosk selling coffee and donuts. He realized he was thirsty and hungry. He needed to keep his strength up. There might be necks needing snapping here. In the last town he had snapped a dozen necks. But they had been bikers or narcotraficantes or neo-Nazis or foreign agents out to steal a computer program. The details got blurred with time. But they were the bad guys and he was the good guy. So they had it coming.
He crossed the road. "Coffee, please," he said.
The young woman poured into a Styrofoam cup and pressed a lid onto it. She was pretty with dark hair and brown eyes. She had a good figure. The top two buttons of her blouse were undone. He took a few donuts and paid her, leaving a tip.
"Thank you," she said.
The coffee was strong and freshly made. She made good coffee so she must be a good woman. The big man said nothing but sat on a bench outside. He didn't have long to wait. A black town car pulled up and a man in a suit got out. He glanced at the drifter and walked up to the woman.
"Got my money?" he demanded.
The woman shook her head. "Sorry. Business has been slow." She looked scared.
"Then you'll have to pay some other way. Get in the car," he said.
