Chapter 7
Grizz
Sheriff Grizzley T.Lawman stood on the side of Highway 80 with his bullhorn in one hand and his professional reputation in the other, watching what had to be the biggest convoy of degenerates he'd ever seen in his thirty years of law enforcement rolling toward his roadblock like a motorized plague of biblical proportions.
The sight was enough to make a grown man question his life choices.Trucks stretched from here to next Tuesday, everything from custom Peterbilts to rigs with flame decals that weren't just for show.Behind the eighteen-wheelers came civilian vehicles—cars, motorcycles, RVs, and what looked like a chartreuse microbus that had seen better decades.
"Smokie," he bellowed at his son, who was crouched behind a patrol car with that cotton-stuffed husband of his clutched to his chest."you seeing this parade of criminal activity heading our way?"
"Yes, Daddy," Smokie called back, his voice carrying that nervous quality it always had when Grizz was operating at full authority."Mr.Snuggles says it looks like an awful lot of trucks for a simple smuggling operation."
"Mr.Snuggles don't know jack shit about criminal investigations," Grizz roared back, adjusting his hat to the proper angle for maximum authoritative effect."That's why Sheriff Cottonmouth asked for our assistance.This here's organized crime, boy, the kind that requires coordinated law enforcement response."
Through his binoculars, Grizz could see the lead truck—a massive custom Peterbilt that looked like it had been built by someone who thought regular eighteen-wheelers were for wimps.The damn thing was chromed out like a mobile cathedral, all gleaming metal and attitude, with enough horsepower to pull the state capitol building up a mountain backwards.Behind it stretched what looked like half the truckers in America, plus civilian vehicles that had no business being involved in whatever illegal operation was going down.
"This is Sheriff Grizzley T.Lawman," he announced into his bullhorn, his voice carrying across the highway with the authority of three decades wearing a badge and the lung capacity of a drill sergeant with hemorrhoids."You scum-suckin' sons of bitches got yourself exactly five minutes to pull them rigs over and surrender for arrest, or I'm gonna show you what happens when you try to make a fool out of the Fairweather County Sheriff's Department."
The convoy kept coming like a freight train with an attitude problem and a personal vendetta against law enforcement.
"Daddy," Smokie called out, "Mr.Snuggles thinks maybe they didn't hear you over the sound of all those diesel engines."
"They heard me, boy.They're just stupid enough to think they can run a roadblock set up by a man with thirty years of law enforcement experience and a personal grudge against criminal degenerates."Grizz keyed his radio, connecting to the other county units positioned along the highway."All units, this is Sheriff Lawman.Prepare for intercept procedures.We got ourselves a bunch of criminal masterminds who think they can outrun properly coordinated law enforcement."
The lead truck was close enough now that Grizz could make out the driver—a hairy bastard who looked like he could bench press a school bus without breaking a sweat.Next to him sat some woman with a camera, probably documenting the whole criminal operation for their scrapbooks or whatever the hell criminals did these days.
And there, right in the middle of the civilian support vehicles, was that chartreuse microbus.As it got closer, he could make out what looked like eleven long-haired individuals inside, all of them wearing tie-dyed shirts and expressions of peaceful determination that made Grizz's teeth itch.
"Sweet suffering Hades on a cracker," Grizz breathed."Is that a bunch of hippies in a microbus?"
"Mr.Snuggles says they look like Friends of Zeus," Smokie reported helpfully.
"Friends of Zeus in a microbus following a criminal convoy," Grizz muttered."This day just keeps getting better and better.This is your final warning," he announced through the bullhorn, putting every ounce of authority he'd accumulated over three decades into his voice."Pull over now, or face the consequences of resisting arrest."
The trucks kept rolling like they hadn't heard a damned word.
"Well, I'll be fucked sideways with a rusty chainsaw," Grizz muttered."They're actually gonna try to run the roadblock."
The convoy hit Grizz's roadblock like the apocalypse delivered by diesel engine and bad intentions.That lead Peterbilt—a chrome-plated monster that had to weigh more than a small building—didn't slow down, didn't swerve, didn't show the slightest respect for properly positioned law enforcement vehicles.Instead, it plowed straight through the gap between two patrol cars like they were made of paper and wishful thinking.
The sound was like the end of the world having a bad day.Metal screaming against metal, the thunderous roar of engines that could probably be heard in the next state, air brakes hissing like pissed-off dragons with anger management issues.The lead truck's chrome bumper caught a patrol car and launched it spinning through the air like a very expensive frisbee, all four wheels off the ground, rotating majestically before crash-landing in the median with a sound like Hephaestusdestroying his forge.
"Holy jumping Ares in a sidecar," Grizz roared, diving for cover as the mechanical stampede thundered past.
Deputies scattered like cockroaches when the lights come on.Henderson performed what could only be described as an Olympic-quality dive roll behind a concrete barrier just as his patrol car went airborne.One deputy sprinted for the tree line with the speed usually reserved for men whose asses are literally on fire.Another executed a perfect combat crawl under the guardrail, his hat flying off and getting run over by what looked like a truck driven by something with too much white fur and not enough respect for authority.
Truck after truck roared through the wreckage of what had once been a respectable roadblock.A midnight blue rig that moved like a predator, driven by some woman with silver hair who looked like she could tear a man's throat out with her teeth.A massive truck throwing off clouds of supernaturally cold air, operated by what appeared to be a yeti with a commercial driver's license.A dragon-powered kitchen truck with actual flames shooting from the exhaust stacks and smoke pouring out of what looked like a barbecue smokestack welded to the roof.
The noise was deafening—eighty-five screaming diesel engines, air horns blowing like the world's angriest orchestra, the crash and clatter of patrol cars being turned into modern art by trucks that outweighed them by about forty thousand pounds each.
"Hera’s tiny titties," Grizz bellowed from behind his patrol car, watching his carefully planned roadblock turn into the world's most expensive demolition derby."They're destroying my entire goddamn motor pool."
The chartreuse microbus came through the carnage like it had been practicing this maneuver for decades, eleven long-haired Friends of Zeus somehow managing to thread the needle between overturned patrol cars and scattered debris without so much as scratching their psychedelic paint job.One of them was playing a guitar, another was waving what looked like a peace sign, and a third appeared to be smoking something that probably wasn't tobacco.
