Getting Ugly Read Free Page B

Montana…perhaps Idaho. He’d had to change planes three times, and he’s hammered out of his skull from the Jack and Cokes.
    Brobee walks through the parking lot, looking over the available vehicles as if he was shopping for a new ride. The booze is starting to fade and he lost his ticket at some point. He still has no idea where he is. Could be Oregon. Could be Canada. Could be Sweden. There are woods in the distance, with mountains. Brobee selects a slick, old school Cadillac and smashes a brick through the passenger window.
    The freshly stolen Caddie weaves and winds down a serpentine, country road that’s completely surrounded by thick walls of trees. The headlights cut through the dark, foggy night. Inside the Caddie, Brobee has the 10-speaker, 2 subwoofer, 200 watt sound system booming classic rock. He’s enjoying Golden Earring so much he doesn’t notice the red blinking fuel light.
    Brobee’s new ride slows down to a crawl, then rolls to a stop as “Radar Love” shuts off.
    “Fuck.”
    Brobee exits, nothing for miles but trees, crickets and moonlight. He fumbles around the glove box and finds a flashlight. He hears a muffled noise coming from the trees far away. Distant, but it almost sounds like someone is there.
    “Hello?” Brobee asks the dark.
    The sound comes from deep within the woods. Brobee hates this: still half-buzzed, alone in the wild, no gas, had to bail the motel without his cell, and his only food is that extra bag of nuts he swiped from the plane. He moves into the heavy woods with the flashlight in hand.
    After what seems like hours of pushing through this dark maze of bark and vegetation, Brobee’s out of breath. He’s been at this awhile, and hasn’t begun his exercise program yet. That’s tomorrow, he reminds himself as he leans on a tree.
    The sound has stopped. Brobee asks, “Hello?” Nothing. Complete silence greets him from the darkness in every direction.
    Dense.
    Claustrophobic.
    This sucks and I’m not happy.
    Then the sound is back. This time it’s much louder and sounds like it’s just up ahead; sounds a lot like singing, actually.
    What the fuck?
    Brobee pushes through the seemingly endless forest until he finally reaches a clearing.
    “Thank Christ,” Brobee exhales. He’s saved. He’s so excited and happy he starts to bounce a bit. The singing continues, belting an almost operatic version of AC/DC.
    Brobee strains to get a good look at something out into the distance. Something located in a large clearing has grabbed his attention by the throat. He freezes, not believing what his eyes are reporting back to his brain. He mutters to himself, “Is that? No. No fuckin’ way.”
    Confusion fills his feeble mind as recognition shakes his flimsy body. Pure fear mixed with terror, topped off with an asshole clenching panic. Lips tremble. Eyes twitch. Flashlight drops.
    He hears the sound of water trickling. Looking down, he sees piss rolling down his leg splashing all over the flashlight—so terrified he didn’t even notice he was pissing himself. A new low, even for Brobee. All of this, the twitching, trembling, pissing…all of it because of what is up ahead in the clearing.
    Brobee unleashes the scream of thousand girly men as he hauls ass back into the woods, running for his life. With no regard for his body, he bounces off trees, falls, skids, slides, and claws his way through the darkness, maintaining his feminine wail throughout his frantic journey to safety. Bat outta hell style, Brobee flies from the woods and lands sprawled in the road. A truck skids to a stop inches from plastering him. A portly driver steps out, but the nice guy doesn’t even get the chance ask
“Are you okay?”
before Brobee jumps him. He puts a foot to the driver’s balls and a knee to his chin, then steals his truck.
    Brobee lets the tires peel as he continues his screaming, tears streaming and fists beating the dashboard. At the airport parking lot he brings the stolen truck to a