Stop Me if You've Heard This One...
   Every summer, I head out with a partner in search of adventure on the great American roadways.  This year is no exception.  My buddy Reggie and I shoot over to Las Vegas on the 28th of June in my gold ‘87 Buick LeSabre, a tradition that goes back to the day I got my driver's license six years ago.  We sweep into the casino about midnight on the 30th, and leave twenty minutes later with an extra $800 in my pocket.  Happy belated birthday indeed.
   Back in the golden stallion at 1:00 a.m., we start for Roswell, New Mexico, to buy—what else—alien masks.  800 planks go a long way when you're talking about alien masks.  Hell, I was thinking about maybe getting a whole outfit, with some money leftover for Pop Rocks.  Before I know it, there we are, 15 hours later, in the home stretch.  Then we see him.  A hitchhiker.
   “Nah, man, he's fucked-up looking.  Look at that fucking huge backpack,” says Reg.
   “Fuck that shit, pick him up.”
   “A'ight.”
   I sit in the back with him, Reg at the wheel.  He says his name is Mouse, and I say bullshit.  He thinks I'm playing, but an awkward silence straightens him out.  We sit there, 104 degree air flowing throughout the car, Beastie Boys in the background.  I wait till the end of the song before I stab him in the right temple with a screwdriver.  Blood spurts across me and out my window.  But you knew that was coming.  Why would you pick up a hitchhiker if you weren't going to kill him?
   Reg pulls over, the bitch.
   “What we gonna do, Jeff?  Shit, man.”
   “Heave-ho.”
   He nods.  We pull Mouse out of the car; I take his arms, Reg, the legs.  We start swinging him, getting momentum.  Then just as an 18-wheeler reaches us, we let fly.  Only thing is Reg and I aren't that big.  We throw him all right, but not far enough.  So just as old Mouse hits the ground, the rig rolls right over him, 80 miles an hour.  I guess the driver thought it was a tire falling apart, because he didn't stop.  How's his driving?  Pretty shitty if he runs over people without noticing.  Prick.
   Anyway, Reg and I hop in the Blockmobile, back on track for Roswell.  I take the helm while he gets in back to lie down a bit.  I hear him unzipping Mouse's backpack, then feel a tap on my shoulder.  I turn to see what's up, and nearly shit my pants—a fucking alien staring back at me!  Reg laughs and throws the bag up front, alien masks fall all over the front seat.  We turn around and head back home.  I must've saved 10 bucks on gas that day.