I pulled up alongside the foxes, and drove down into the ditch a little to allow for easy, inconspicuous, and expeditious loading. I had recently junked an old white Ford F250 XL Super Duty that my dad and I converted into a low temperature refrigerated truck. It had lost its ability to refrigerate, an essential function I could not succeed without. I upgraded to a brand new, customized, hybrid version of the Ford Transit Connect Electric, built specifically for my business plan with a few added features.
I squirmed into a pair of durable gray work gloves, grabbed a heavy duty black garbage bag, slid down into the ditch, maneuvered the top fox into the bag by carefully cramming its busted body, crawled out of the ditch backwards, and slid the bagged fox into the truck, spitting and grunting wildly the entire time. Though mashed road kill, the foxes were in relatively decent shape. Only a few flies swarming around, I must have found them shortly after death. The smell, nonetheless, was revolting. I never really got used to it, although it did get easier each time I collected. I slid back into the ditch, grabbed the other fox with its eyes bulging, tongue slurping, and insides running from its rear end, bagged it, backed out of the ditch once more, slid it into the truck, slammed the back doors, threw the gloves into a small, orange, recyclable plastic bag, and hopped back into the truck. I drove home, parked outside our place, and went inside to shower, eat, and prepare for a long day ahead.
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General FictionAfter being attacked at his subversive, juggernaut restaurant and music venue Platform, Sam delves deeply into an unexplored state of consciousness, uncovering the pivotal details surrounding his earliest memory, ultimately defining his future. Fans...
