Worse Stories For Worse People

A large 18-wheeler pulled up at a small truck stop, pulling it’s heavy luggage with it. The sun was just below the horizon, painting the sky in a beautiful hue of orange. The truck stop was the only thing in sight on the long, desert road, and it was the only source of light in the times when the sun had fled. It was desolate, and bleak.

Jim MacIntosh jumped down from the cab. He sighed, and adjusted his cap. He was a very large man, earning him the nickname “Big Mac”. He was not a force to be reckoned with.

He was not a fat man, not at all. He was ripped. He was pure muscle. When he wasn’t driving trucks, he was working out at his family's barn. He wasn’t an ugly man, either. He was a chick magnet. Even his little sister, Jackie, thought he was one sexy man.

He pushed the door open. The bell sounded. He was greeted by the smell of spilled beer and peanuts, and the sound of AC/DC, played as loud as possible.

“Ey, my boy Mac!” one of the truckers yelled.

He was soon joined by the rest of the truckers. Mac smiled awkwardly, and took an empty seat on a barstool.

“Whut kin ah git ya?” the bartender asked.

“A glassa Bud thanks,” he said in a deep baritone, sliding a one dollar note across the table.

“Sure pal.”

Big Mac looked up at the dingy little TV set in the bar. A game of football played on. Mac was not interested in sports, strangely. His only real passion was weightlifting. But he loved his family just as much.

He wasn’t always the ladies man he is now. At school, he was bullied for having orange hair, which is part of the reason he took up weightlifting, though he would never admit it. Last man who gave him shit about having “red hair” ended up with a few teeth missing. He ran his fingers down his long, flowing orange hair, before moving his hand up to readjust his cap.

His thoughts were interrupted as a beer slid across the table, towards him. He quickly grabbed it by the handle and took a hearty swig.

“Thanks, buddy,” he said.

He stared back at the screen. He thought about his family. Ever since his parents died, he had to make the income by driving trucks around the country. He wasn’t meant to do this, but he was forced to. What other choice did he have? Let the farm burn? Selling apples in buttfuck nowhere was no way to make a living.

He missed his little sisters, Jackie and Blossom. His missed his granny. He missed the farm. But he had to make the dough.

But there was a benefit to all of this; the sex. Sex in a dirty fucking truck stop. Sex like it’s the last thing on the planet. Big Mac had never had so much sex. Fuck, he could fuck five bitches a day. Easy. It’s a great business. Driving all day, fucking all night, with free coffee and food. Fuck, what a life. It could be gruelling at times, but the sex, man. Man, fucking was a fucking sport. It was an artform. It was everything.

“C’mon Jimmy, yew ain’t ever been a fanna football,” a voice said.

Recognising the voice, Big Mac said, “Ey Braden! Good ta see ya again.”

Cousin Braden, a trucker just like him. In fact, Braden was the reason he was in trucking. Braden, also known as Braeburn, would stun his older cousin with stories of the lonely truck driver.

“Always good ta ya too, man! It’s been too long!” Braden laughed.

Braeburn was named Braeburn because he accidently burned his parent’s home down. As a result, he had to move out, and lived with various cousin for a long time, before picking his home on the road.

“Ey, Mac! Yew see that pink-haired bitch in the corner? She’s been lookin’ atchya for a long time.”

He turned to look at her. Her pink, curly hair covered half of her face. God, did she love the colour pink. Everything about her was fucking pink. Her shirt, her shoes, her nails, her pants, her hair, her eyebrows, her cunt. Fuckin’ everything.

“Yo! Pretty in Pink! Scoot yo ass over here!” Mac yelled.

She looked at him nervously, before getting up and walking over.

“Hiya, I’m Pinkamena!”

“Hiya, I don’t give a fuck bout yer bitch! Yew a pro?” Braden asked, subtle as ever.

“Uhhh… no, but if you really wanna…”

“Ha! She reminds me of this chick I fucked ages ago,” Mac said.

“How?” Braden was prodding for an answer

“Oh, man, she was fuckin’ wild. Like a stuck pig, man. She was the weirdest little cunt I’ve ever put lil’ Mac into, but damn, the sex… fuck man, it was… like… animalistic!

“Damn, motherfucker!” Braden said, high fiving.

“Well, I better show this lil bitch a good time,” Mac said, pulling out a hundred dollar note from his pocket.

“Yew take Franklins, ya whore?”

“Uhhhh… sure…”

They laughed, as Mac grabbed her ass, and walked towards the restroom. She looked upset, but Big Mac did not give a shit. She were as worthless as all the other sluts he’s fucked in the toilets.

“I bet you dyed them pubes of yers pink, amirite? Yew probably got a whole bush of pink, ey?” he laughed, smacking her ass.

Tonight was just starting. This little bitch was gonna love it.

He pushed the doors open, grabbing her around the waist, and throwing her into a free cubicle. He locked the cubicle door and unzipped his pants.

“C’mon, take yer stupid pink pants off, yew dumbshit. I ain’t waiting.”

She cried, but why should Big Mac care? It’s a piece of meat for him to shove his fucking cock into. She took her pants off, and Mac shoved his dick into her. She gasped in pain. He laughed, and pounded her senseless.

This is the power of independent trucking.