A sliver of dawn flooded through a crack in the curtains, filling the semi’s cabin with warm light. The sharpened beam pierced the humid air and stabbed at Jullian’s eyelids. He groaned and opened one eye as if to tell the sun to, “piss off.” Jullian sat up holding his splitting head as if afraid the contents might fall out. He rubbed his eyes, looked at the ajar curtain, and cursed.

He had blown past the eleven-hour-per-day driving limit on a 47 hour, non-stop, hell-bent flight down the east coast: fueled by raw diesel, fresh tobacco, and highly refined amphetamines. It hadn’t been easy, safe, or legal, but Jullian had made it early enough to be the first truck on the dock this morning; Mr. Zerilli’s crew could load their cargo before anyone else showed up.

Don Zerilli never failed to generously compensate for delivering ahead of schedule. With this on his mind, and a mountainous bump of coke in his nose, Jullian turned the key and felt himself roar back to life with his rig.


This was written for week 90 of FFfAW. The photo was provided by Footy and Foodie.

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