One solid dotted line flashed in the absence of darkness and then disappeared beneath the beat up Ford flatbed's hood. Another followed it's brother, shooting beneath the truck like a bullet and then firing out in the rearview, now slowly shrinking in the distance, amidst it's kind.

Hank Williams Bonnet had been watching the yellow dotted line all night on that lonely stretch of highway where his truck sucked up lane markers like a change machine ate a dollar. On the radio, his namesake sang about Jesus in that tinny, distant quality that always made him feel queer and at home at the same time.

[i:35b45cedea]I found the light, I found the light!
No more darkness, no more night![/i:35b45cedea]

Devoid of streetlamps, the section of Interstate 40 that cut clear through New Mexico like a conquistidors blade looked insignificant in the vast desert nightscape. The Ford's headlights, like splotched with bug carcasses, cut two great beams of light through the blackness although Hank reckoned he could've easily driven without it.

The entire sky was a chorus of celestial bodies, shining their heavenly blue light over the empty plains below. Hank hated it.

He glanced into his review at the ever present collection of yellow lines and caught a glimpse of himself. Three days without shaving had darkened his face and deepened the lines. Even his crystal blue eyes seemed lifeless and expressionless in the cab's dark interior. His angular features had a green tint from the light wafting up from the radio and Hank smiled at this.

His namesake fell quiet on the radio and Bob Dylan's "Masters of War" came on. Hank turned the radio up and shuffled in his seat, sitting forward and pulling the pistol with two empty chambers from the small of his back. He placed it on the benchseat next to him and drove on.

[i:7b56aeffe5]Come you Masters of War
You that build the big guns
You that build the death planes
You that build the big bombs
You can hide behind walls
You can hide behind desks
I just want you to know
I can see through your masks.

You that never done nothin'
But build to destroy
You play with my world
Like it's your little toy
You put a gun in my hand
And you hide from my eyes
And you turn and run farther
When the fast bullets fly.

Like Judas of old
You lie and deceive
A world war can be won
You want me to believe
But I see through your eyes
And I see through your brain
Like I see through the water
That runs down my drain.

You fasten all the triggers
For the others to fire
Then you sit back and watch
While the death count gets higher
You hide in your mansion
As young people's blood
Flows out of their bodies
And is buried in the mud.

You've thrown the worst fear
That can ever be hurled
Fear to bring children
Into the world
Go threatening my baby
Unborn and unnamed
You ain't worth the blood
That runs in your veins.

How much do I know
To talk out of turn?
You might say that I'm young
You might say I'm unlearned
But there's one thing I know
I'm younger than you
Even Jesus would never forgive what you do.

Let me ask you one question
Is your money that good?
Will it buy you forgiveness?
Do you think that it could?
I think you will find
When your death takes it's toll
All the money you made
Will never buy back your soul.

I hope that you die
And your death will come soon
I'll follow your casket
By the pale afternoon
And I'll watch while you're lowered
Into your deathbed
And I'll stand over your grave
Until I'm sure that your dead.[/i:7b56aeffe5]

As the pale, grey truck barrelled through the New Mexico night, Hank could not what the masters of war had in store for him.

The dusty pickup spat angrily as it veered off the empty highway and into the tiny roadside diner's vacant sandlot. The miniscule restaraunt was a relic from a bygone era. Little more than a trailor with a wicker fence hiding it's wheels, it had probably held more than a few conversations about Commie pinkos, that Elvis kid who shook like a cripple, and Marilyn's tits in it's heyday.

Now, with it's simple neon sign flashing "The Greasy Spoon" it was little more than a dinosaur. A facet of a culture that had become as obsolete as the great American roadtrip itself. The old Ford shuddered to a halt, sending slow wafts of dust dancing into the night air. Hank watched it for a moment in the flourescent light the sign provided, and then stepped out.

The driver's side door offered shielding from view and he swiped the gun from the seat, shoving it into his jeans. He untucked his shirt to cover the handle and then closed the door of the cab. After ensuring that the canvas cover was secure on the flatbed, he walked to the diner's entrance.

The establishment's interior was as uninspired as it's outside. Six tiny booths lined the wall that was comprised solely of windows and across from that was a thin linoleum bar that ran the breadth the trailor, vinyl stooltops sitting empty.

There was a small kitchen in back, but other than the welcoming aroma of strong coffee brewing, there was little evidence of recent use. The salt and pepper shakers sat completely full. The windows were shined to the point where Hank wondered whether or not there was even glass in them.

A rather stupid looking individual stood behind the bar, his face buried in a book. A cheap paperback novel by the looks of it. Long greasy strands of brown hair hung in his acne ridden face, mouth agape. He didn't seem to register Hank's presence at all.

Bonnet walked up and took the stool directly in front of the boy, at last warranting an upward glance from him. The boy finished the last few lines of the chapter and then reluctantly flipped the book over, displaying the cover.

[i:113ba36450]Choose Your Own Adventure! The Curse of Smuggler's Cove![/i:113ba36450]

[i:113ba36450]"Evenin' mister."[/i:113ba36450] the boy grunted, a row of yellowed teeth poking out from behind his lips, [i:113ba36450]"What'll it be?"[/i:113ba36450]

[i:113ba36450]"A steak and a coffee."[/i:113ba36450]

[i:113ba36450]"Sure. How do ya want that cooked?"[/i:113ba36450] the boy pulled an old apron out from beneath the countertop and began tying it on. Apparently he was the entire night staff.

[i:113ba36450]"Rare'll be fine."[/i:113ba36450] Bonnet said, pulling a crumpled pack of Camels out of one pocket and a rusted Zippo out of the other. He held a smoke between his pursed lips and flicked the lighter open, a sound that caused the boy to turn and face him.

The flame danced and leapt between them, and Hank followed his gaze to the "No Smoking" sign that hung by the door. Bonnet didn't close the lighter but merely stared at the boy from beneath the brim of his hat. The kid returned his stare for a moment and then chuckled nervously, appearing momentarily flustered.

[i:113ba36450]"Fuck it, right?"[/i:113ba36450]

[i:113ba36450]"Yeah,"[/i:113ba36450] Bonnet lowered his head and lit the cigarette. [i:113ba36450]"Fuck it."[/i:113ba36450] Great blue plumes of smoke spewed out from beneath the hat's wide brim.

[i:113ba36450]"Ah...sorry..so....how do want that steak cooked again?"[/i:113ba36450] the boy turned his back on Bonnet once more and began pouring him a cup of coffee.

[i:113ba36450]"Rare as a cow's ass."[/i:113ba36450]

The boy placed the cup of coffee in front of him and the slid a saucer of cream and cup of sugar across the counter towards him. Bonnet pushed it aside and brought the steaming coffee to his dry, cracked lips.

[i:113ba36450]"Comin' up."[/i:113ba36450] the boy's voice crackled and he had never wished so badly that there was music in the diner, or that he had taken the night off, or that this prick had picked any diner but his. He disappeared momentarily through the swinging door that lead into the kitchen.

[i:113ba36450]"So..uh...where're you heading?"[/i:113ba36450] the voice cracked from the kitchen, call over the sound of sizzling beef.

Bonnet didn't answer but rather took another long drag off his cigarette. He slipped from pistol from his belt and laid it across his lap, safely concealed by the countertop. It's polished handle sang beneath his fingertips.

The boy must've gotten the point from Bonnet's silence because he made no further attempt at conversation. Rather, they both sat and listened to the steak sizzle and pop, and watch the night grow darker by the minute.

Bonnet let the pistol lay in his lap and set to work on his steak. When he was finished he pushed the plate forward and picked up his coffee. His free hand drifted back towards the handle of the gun.

'[i:0a3f92504a]Jesus H. Christ,'[/i:0a3f92504a] the boy thought, peering through the dingy windows at the empty highway, [i:0a3f92504a]'what a time for a slow night. This fucker's givin' me the creeps...'[/i:0a3f92504a]

He glanced at Bonnet, who sat peering back through the steam that rose from the black coffee like a serpent. Those cool grey eyes seemed detatched, almost ethereal.

[i:0a3f92504a]"Heads or tails?"[/i:0a3f92504a] the customer asked, the coffee still perched just beneath his cracked lips. The boy appeared confused.

[i:0a3f92504a]"W..what?"[/i:0a3f92504a] he asked, feigning a smile.

[i:0a3f92504a]"Heads or tails."[/i:0a3f92504a] he slid a single quarter onto the counter.

[i:0a3f92504a]"What're we playing for?"[/i:0a3f92504a] the boy asked, now more uncomfortable than ever. He didn't get paid enough for this shit. When the boss came back, he was going to shove the apron in his face and tell him to fuck off! Creeps like this drifting off the highway like rabid dogs...

Bonnet fingered the pistol under the countertop. The desire was almost unbearable.

[i:0a3f92504a]"Maybe nothin'. Maybe everything."[/i:0a3f92504a] he said, setting the coffee down and giving the boy his full attention.

[i:0a3f92504a]"Tails."[/i:0a3f92504a]

Bonnet flipped the coin into the air and let it hit the countertop, at which point he slammed his hand down onto it so violently that the boy jumped back and nearly toppled into the sink.

They both stared intently as he slid his fingers away...


**************************

The old Ford rambled through the night, as it had before, peering into the darkness and into the future.