Creepypasta & Slasher Oneshots

4. Bubba Sawyer

Bubba Sawyer × GN Reader - Craving What the Other is Eating.

WARNINGS

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Mild Violence, Mentions of Death, Sketchy Nubbins, Implied Usage of Another Person for Personal Gains.

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You tried recreating the taste many times. Though it was never just right. You found that the flavor of chicken with the texture of a steak was as close as you could get. Almost every time the craving hit, you wondered what the hell your soulmate was doing. 

You had tried several butcher shops and locally owned restaurants in hopes of finding the meal that your soulmate always seems to be eating. Every once in a while though you found him eating something normal, like chili.

Since you had the weekend off of work you decided that a trip through rural Texas would help you find it. So here you were, driving through the state in search of your soulmate's ever-so-loved food. You were enjoying the joy-ride with the windows down and the radio turned up tuned to the local rock station. 

The erratic waving of someone's arms caught your attention, the person was certainly male. He looked unkempt, dirty and ragged, you almost kept driving to get away from him. Though you figured that driving this man to his destination would be your good deed for the day.

You pull a bit into the shallow ditch just ahead of where the sporadic male was waving you down from. You watch through the rearview mirror as he jogs to the passenger side.

When he settled himself in the car, you spoke, “where are you headed?”

“Up this road, maybe just over ten miles if I had’ta guess.”

You nod and pull back onto the road, “know about any local butcher shops?”

He furrowed his brows, accommodating the questioning look he wore. Though before you could elaborate the words finally clicked together in his brain, “nope, none of them around here no more. But my brother, oh you’d love t’ meet him, is the best at cookin whatever it is yer lookin for.”

You nod thoughtfully and listen to the stranger rant about little things, from his brother to his photography hobby. In between his rants he would give you directions or make small compliments to you or your music taste.  
 
“What's yer name by the way?” 

You glance at him from the corner of your eye, this drive ending up as an awfully long ten miles, “(name), and I thought you said your destination was only ten miles down?”

He fumbles with the camera in his hands, “right there, that's the drive!”

His shout startles you but nonetheless you comply and pull onto the gravel way. You wince at the upturned gravel hitting the underside of your car, “so, what's your name?”

“Don't matter,” you put the car into park and barely have time to do anything else before the man is running away from the car.  You stare blankly at the car door that was left hanging open, just enough so that you would have to get out of the car to shut it. 

A weird man he was, and likely the last person you would take chances picking up off the side of the road. With him gone, you step out of the car to shut the passenger door. Though the setting sun reflects off a laminate surface.