The Suicide Motor Club by Christopher Buehlman

dug for the safety belt and cinched it tight around her tiny waist, buckled it.
    â€œDrive,” she said, and he did.
    A preacher station babbled on the radio, almost out of signal range.
    â€œRuth was a beautiful woman. But it was not just for her beauty that Ruth was allowed to glean from the corn, and in these days (pfffft) less fortunate could take some part of the corn that fell, so that they should not starve. The greater part of (pffffft) was given this privilege, her beauty notwithstanding (pfffft) shown kindness unto her mother-in-law. For the lord Jesus knows, doesn’t he, that this is not always easy.”
    The radio preacher laughed at his own joke.
    The woman turned the volume knob so hard she nearly broke it, and the radio fell silent.
    â€œJesus, Jesus!” she said. “You like Jesus?”
    â€œI love him,” the big man slurred.
    â€œYou love him like you wanna give him big wet sloppy kisses?”
    â€œNo,” he said, “I just lub him.”
    â€œYou
lub
him, huh? You sure? What’s your name?”
    â€œEdgar.”
    â€œEdgar, mash that gas harder.”
    â€œWhere are we going?”
    â€œStraight on. You just keep going straight on, and I’ll tell you when to turn.”
    She watched the needle float a hair nearer to the
E
.
    â€œTalk to me, Edgar, and tell me everything you’re thinking.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œDid you grow up on a farm, Edgar?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œSo you never killed a chicken?
    â€œNo.”
    â€œNever cut its head off?”
    â€œUh-uh.”
    â€œPoke a nail in its eye and fish around to see what its brain looked like?”
    â€œUh-uh.”
    â€œMe neither. Not a chicken, anyway. I grew up in Amish country, they had all the chickens. Start talking.”
    â€œWhat about.”
    â€œI dunno, how about me.”
    â€œWhat’s your name?” he said, drooling a wet one on his collar. She used his tie to wipe his chin.
    â€œWhat’s your mother’s name?”
    â€œJanice.”
    â€œThen my name is Janice. What did you think when you saw me? Just talk and don’t leave anything out.”
    â€œI thought, what’s a hippie girl doing out by herself at night so farfrom town, the Munger Moss Hotel is a bit back in Lebanon and I almost stopped there for the night but then decided I’d try to get home to Shirley it’d make her happy . . .”
    â€œHell with that cow. Talk about me, I said.”
    â€œSorry. Thought hippie girl kinda like Cleopatra with all that makeup on your eyes and them beads sewn in your hair, thought maybe you was a whore then maybe you had a gun but that didn’t seem likely and I wouldn’t feel good about myself I left a skinny girl alone in the night when she was askin’ for help so I pulled over thinking maybe you were sick maybe a junkie that skin on you too white and I couldn’t see your mouth right, like your teeth were blurry and when you leaned in close I smelled them hippie oils on you but under that something like a dead thing or dirt in a basement and I knew you’d smell worse if you were hot but you aren’t, you aren’t no warmer than the night air outside . . .”
    â€œYeah, but am I pretty? Did you think I was pretty?”
    â€œAt first I guess but I don’t like skinny girls too much that way, but yeah you got a pretty face I thought until I smelled that smell and I knew it was a trick you’re a trick like a new paint job on a car that’s been wrecked but it was too late because I looked at you in the eyes and stuck like on flypaper and my mind ain’t right now and I wish you’d let me go from whatever you’re doing to me and why are you laughing, what’s funny Janice, what’s funny, can I stop talking now ’cause I can’t keep spit in my mouth it keeps falling out.”
    The woman had been laughing, laughed even harder when he