
Powel
Jack repositioned the air conditioning vent for the one hundredth time and was rewarded with a feeble blast of tepid air. In the oven-like cabin of the Corsica, every puff of cool air was an event worthy of celebration. Jack squinted through his sunglasses. Ahead, the road stretched seemingly forever in waves of shimmering heat rising from the floor of Death Valley.
“Talk about the middle of fuckin’ nowhere,” he grumbled as he repositioned his ass on the damp car seat. His clothes were soaked through with sweat, even with the air conditioning set on high. The crotch of his chinos was sopping, and his wringing wet Jockeys had crawled up his crack, giving him the wedgie of all time.
His white dress shirt was plastered to his muscular torso, translucent with sweat. “When I get back to the office, I am going to beat the living shit out of Ross,” he promised himself. Ross, his worthless coworker, had talked Jack into going on this wild goose chase. Jack was the top sales rep for Southland Paper Products, and Death Valley was definitely not in his territory. Ross had talked Jack into covering Ross’s crummy circuit in exchange for handling Jack’s accounts the following month when Jack was off to Tahoe for vacation. Ross had sworn up and down that the jerk who ran the Gas-n-Go in Needles was just panting to sign on as a new account. When Jack arrived in Needles, though, the cretin had practically chased him out of his gas station
screeching that no “slimy crook from L.A.” was going to trick him into buying inferior quality toilet paper. Pig.
screeching that no “slimy crook from L.A.” was going to trick him into buying inferior quality toilet paper. Pig.