The auto-motorist rambled down the old clay road, heading south. The Dixie Highway is some strange-ness, he thought, tuggin' at his shirt collar that seemed to tighten around his stout neck with every bump in the road-way. He began to sweat, watching the Spanish Moss reaching for him, chasing him. He accelerated and the bumps became nastier, jarring him to and fro', his guts began to ache. What in the be-devil was in that gravy this morning? The highway came 'round a big sweeping bend and the sun fell on the auto-motorist for the first time that morning. The humidity instantly leapt up from the green grasses. There was no wind today, suffocating the man like a sloth, the Spanish Moss reached in closer on the highway, and the sun broke into rays through the vines and the air thick as gravy. Crickets! he cursed aloud, un-buttoning his collar. The Dixie Highway is some strange-ness, it is.
The rambling driver pulled his motor-car to the side of the road-way, into the shade of a large tree, and exiting the vehicle, stumbled down the embank-ment. He lay there for a moment, in the wet grass, on the verge of over-heating, and calmed his breathing. He remembered what the boss had told him: Deliver the package, Michael. The driver pulled himself back up to his motor-car and opened the trunk. Inside there was an ice-box filled with cold ginger-ale. Michael took a slow sip from his pocket-flask and cracked open a soda-pop, downing half the bottle in one drink. He sat on the car's back bumper and took a deep breath, but just as he was about to exhale, he heard some-thing running across the road-way behind him. He froze momentarily, then spun and saw some-thing big dart behind the trunk of the massive shade tree and into the under-brush beyond. The heat returned to Michael's face. Crickets! he cursed in a whisper, shutting the car-trunk. Ginger-ale in hand he looked towards the road ahead, where what-ever had ran across the road had ran, and then took a step towards the driver's door. As he took his second step, he heard the beast coming for him.
Desmond Bishop exploded from the Georgia thicket and closed the distance to his prey in a split second, running his shoulder through Michael Turner's hips and driving his to the rough clay high-way, dust flying and birds cackled wildly in the trees. Desmond stood up and smiled. The empty bottle of ginger ale sat glimmering in the sun, inches from Michael's out-stretched hand.
How did you find me? asked Michael as he sat up, clutching his side.
Desmond's smile grew wider. Now why would I go and spoil the surprise, Big Fella? This ain't the end of the story!
He hit the trunk of the motor-car with his fist, popping it open, and grabbed a fresh ginger ale, watching Michael as he crawled to his feet. Michael slowly walked back to the car and then reached into his back pocket, pulling out an envelope. He handed it to Desmond.
I believe this is your's now.
Desmond took another sip of cool ginger ale and opened the envelope, removing the card from within. And opening it, he saw written - in his own hand-writing - these words: NFC Championship Game. He smiled again and - as quickly as he had appeared - disappeared back into the trees along the Dixie Highway.
-The End-
