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Conversation and caffeine were the truckers' best friends on the road, especially at night when ya had to get so many miles under your belt. With a big thermos resting by his right thigh and the CB chatter cranked up as far as the volume control could manage, the driver was already down to the wire on delivery of the cargo he carried.

If Karl Brooks had thought working for Amerik Trucking had been tough, the East coast to Mid-West hauls had been a cakewalk compared to the sometimes 36 hour cross country runs he had to make to earn a living as an independent.

In very few other businesses was Time literally Money. It was what he bid with and what Karl was good at.

"Come Back, Comfortably Numb. You out there, buddy? " the crackling folksy voice at the other end was welcome noise to the thirty four year old trucker. Near to the end of any run, that was when the screw ups usually happened; like now.

"I'm out there, all right. " he muttered to himself , momentarily startled as a tan 85 Honda Civic cut in almost too close for Brooks to break safely. The driver quickly pumped the pedal, the scream of hydraulics more effective than ice-cold water to chase sleep away.

Playing tag with a big rig that could easily smear your little fly weight of a car all over the asphalt, that was downright suicidal. Karl gave the smaller vehicle some distance before he hit the air horn, hoping to put some fear into the reckless moron.

"Son of a bitch. " the asshole had flipped him the bird. While Karl Brooks was not necessarily a large man, just over six foot tall, his comfortably stocky body had a solid presence which told people they shouldn't mess with the Cincinnati native. Oddly enough, he was slow to anger, choosing instead a gradual burn which gave folks a chance to back off.

Lonesome Ranger was a company man still, working for some Office Supply firm out of Toledo. But he was one of the old men of the road and always looked after the younger drivers.

"Back at ya, over. " Karl replied, pressing down the receiver. "What you got for me, old man? "

"Oakee from Wiscokee saw you barreling down 71 like a bat outta hell, son. " His friend told him.

"Got some over ripe fruit ta get into Cincinnati, Ranger. " answered the big man with a chuckle. "You got some short cuts for me? come back. "

"You need to get yer ass into the next isle, friend. " the other trucker told him. "There's a big mess up ahead and no good way round it. Best that you pull your rig over, have some coffee an wait it out. "

Karl grimaced at the news, likely some major pile-up to draw both local and state cops to the scene. If Lonesome Ranger was right, he'd do no better to follow the old mans' lead and settle in some place warm.

"What's your twenty, Ranger? " he asked, idly flipping the loose leaf pages of the quick reference atlas which hung to the right of the huge steering column. The nearest service isle was about fifteen miles down the pike...

"If yer looking at King's Mill Plaza, you got me. " chuckled the older man. "I'll look for ya and even buy you a cup while we wait. Over n out. "

King's Mill was busy, even at eleven forty-five at night. It seemed like almost every trucker and even a few buses had been held up, tourists and working men milling about the service station in chatty confusion.

"Glad ya got in all right. " Ranger greeted Karl from the crowded luncheon counter. Lonesome Ranger: known to his buddies as Randell Harris, was easy in manner even as he was short in stature. A strong square face set atop a sturdy body, topped off at about five foot five, gave the taller man an easy grin.

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