"What are you here for?" The hairy man asked, quite casually for a serial molester of sleeping men. "I don't want to talk about it. I'm going to sleep. Please don't fondle my genitals." Vic replied. He had no desire to explain the situation to a stranger, particularly after getting the third degree from the police.
Six hours ago Vic Musket was pulled over on a lonely Alabama highway while staggering drunk. Lucky for him the officer had no suspicion about his intoxication, since a practiced drunk rarely slurs his speech, and an unwashed drunk smells like ass, not booze. But mid conversation the cop glanced in the back seat of the car and spotted a thirteen-inch black rubber cock. And apparently in the state of Alabama sex toys are illegal contraband. Vic tried explaining that the cock belonged to a pimp named Swisha, and Vic had absent-mindedly forgotten to clean out the car after purchasing it, but that seemed to have made matters worse.
Vic awakened to an empty cell, which was a welcome sight. The same officer that had arrested him was now explaining that his bail was suspended by the judge earlier that morning, and he was being released. But he was going to have to pay the $300 towing and storage on his car before his trip would continue. And he had to sign an agreement that he would pay his fine for possession of illicit goods within 90 days or he would have to return to Alabama for court. The fools accepted Vic at his word, and he explained that it might be a day or so until he could get the money wired to him so he could get his car out of impound. In reality, Vic was nearly out of money, and pretty much knew that he would never see that car again.
"Can I at least get the dildo back?" Vic was pushing his luck with the redneck cop. "Son, yer lucky to be going anywhere. Thirty years ago we would have made you into a quiet windchime hanging from the nearest oak tree." The cop replied with a stern tone. Some people just don't appreciate good humor anymore.
Vic collected his belongings and thumbed through his remaining cash. Forty bucks. That wasn't going to get him very far, definitely not all the way to Texas considering he had to get some drinking done. The detective became suddenly aware that he looked alien in this town. Everyone was dressed well and clearly bathed regularly, and here was Vic Musket wreaking of piss and body odor, and piss was winning the battle. He was going to have to fit in a little better if he wanted to hitchhike his way out of this town.
As if answering his thoughts, Vic looked across the street and noticed a truck stop down the road a way. Truckers were not discerning people, and he might be able to make an arrangement with one of them in the bar next to the hand-painted sign that read "Truckers welcome! Rig parking out back, showers $5" Hopefully that arrangement wouldn't involve wearing a wig and crying afterwards, but he wasn't ruling anything out as he walked into the bar.
To be continued...