I've always known I'm going to hell. My tombstone will read: "Here lies Tarquin Churchwell, our blogger who art in Hades." Yep, I know where I'm going, but I always thought it would be years before I got there.
The ride to Portsmouth made me think that I was going to the Final Destination last night!
This is what happened:
This is what happened:
There was hardly anybody on the bus, as it bounced through the countryside. Only a few passengers, several chickens and a sickly goat. I pressed my nose against the oily window. Way out there I could see a pumpkin now and then, just flickering orange light on some lonely porch.
It wasn't even warm on the bus. A man wearing camouflage was snoring at the other end of the cabin, his coat rolled up for a pillow. His assault rifle was on the floor. A few seats away, a girl with spikey orange hair jerked to the beat of her ipod. She saw me watching her, reflected in the window, and smiled at my reflection. But before I could make my move, the sick goat fell on top of her, killing her instantly. I spat a chicken feather and sighed. The man beside me was shooting heroin. He didn't care what I was going through.
I tried to sleep, but the driver, a very old man, probably eighty-six, drove down the highway like a maniac. He had the scary habit, whenever the bus veered into the next lane, of dropping to the floor and turning the wheel, then bobbing up to see where he was. Crossing the New Hampshire state line, he hopped four lanes of traffic, swerved to avoid a flying piece of granite, and dropped to the floor. He hit the brakes in the bus station, hurled my bag at Lylah (but missed her) and slammed the cargo lid so hard, the whole bus jumped on its wheels. The asshole came within three inches of running over my toes.
I tried to sleep, but the driver, a very old man, probably eighty-six, drove down the highway like a maniac. He had the scary habit, whenever the bus veered into the next lane, of dropping to the floor and turning the wheel, then bobbing up to see where he was. Crossing the New Hampshire state line, he hopped four lanes of traffic, swerved to avoid a flying piece of granite, and dropped to the floor. He hit the brakes in the bus station, hurled my bag at Lylah (but missed her) and slammed the cargo lid so hard, the whole bus jumped on its wheels. The asshole came within three inches of running over my toes.
