Read the Note From Katherine

Your car hums softly to life around you and eases into the sky, rejoining the streams of traffic bound for Manhattan. You sigh wearily and look at the note that Katherine slipped to you during the debriefing. Glancing at the outside again you flip the sheet of paper open.

“I need to meet you TONIGHT. Very important. One hour at Trail’s Stop in Woodcreek.”

The note is unsigned, but is hand-written with a woman’s touch. You call up a map of the state on your car’s navigation display and query for Trail’s Stop in Woodcreek. It turns out it’s a truck stop in what used to be a logging town even further north from Manhattan. Katherine hasn’t exactly picked the classiest of establishments, but if her goal was to pick somewhere remote and unwatched a truck stop in the middle of fucking nowhere is about as good as you can get.

You instruct the car to change its course and with a whir it accelerates out of the express lane and onto one of the nearly unused non-metro lanes. It takes about fifteen minutes to reach Woodcreek. Just a stain of ramshackle houses and a three-tiered cargo refueling station with a slowly rotating illuminated sign that reads “Trail’s Stop”. A few filthy heavy cargo trucks are parked on the upper tier, a shitty pre-fab motel occupies most of the second tier, and the ground is a no-doubt horrible restaurant and mini-mart with diesel pumps for the aging land trucks.

You guide your car below the two upper tiers and slide it inconspicuously among a few ground vehicles parked around the mini-mart. You wait, popping a gel-tab of Bendazopin to stay awake and sipping from a half-empty bottle of tepid water that is probably at least a week old. After about ten minutes there is a tap on your window. You lower the smoky glass and are greeted by the garishly made-up and pudgy face of what you immediately identify as a truck stop whore. She pops her gum loudly and smiles.

“Need some company mister?” She asks with a thick up-state accent.

You look her up and down unconsciously. She’s maybe 19, poured into a pair of faded blue jeans about two sizes too small, her enormous breasts barely contained by a stretched red baby-doll t-shirt with a wet spot just above her exposed naval. She is cute, but has the quick-worn look of a girl who doesn’t care what men or **** get into her body.

You glance at your watch. Still over half an hour before Katherine is supposed to be here and you are starting to get horny no thanks to the Bendazopin.

“Come on mister, you know you want some ah this,” she drawls, pushing her huge breasts together with her chubby hands. “Ten bucks, I’ll give you the best hand job you’ve ever had. Wanna pay more and I’ll give you more.”

You down the last of your water and lick your lips.