"Here is good. Pull over," he says as Fogerty's voice fades back into static.

You pull the car off the just-barely-a-trail dirt road, just in case there might be traffic. Nothing but dust and rock out here; the only illumination is your Eldorado's headlights. Tonight's moon is still only a faint glimmer on the eastern horizon.

Forty minutes ago, you were heading west on I10, thinking you needed to find a gas station and dinner, when you saw the blond young man at mile marker 344, looking young, and hot, and tired, and entirely delectable. Ignoring what the signs and everybody's mama said about hitchhikers, you pulled over. The man smiled as he climbed into your car, and showed you the K-Bar knife he was carrying.

That knife is still at your ribs as he says, "Get out."

You'd kicked off your flip-flops under the seat, no time to fish for them. You get out, barefoot. Did you pick up a damn car thief? Is all he wants your Libby, your lovingly restored centennial edition? No, he follows you across the bench seat and climbs out too. His pupils are pinpoint as his eyes run up and down you. His smile shows too many teeth for amusement.

"Take the dress off, bitch," he says with a giggle.

It's a bargain-store sundress. You untie the string at the neck and let it fall. His eyes widen. August daytime in Arizona is too damned hot for underwear. Now, the night breeze cools the sweat on your skin. The hair on your arms and legs prickles with the drop in temperature. You shiver; his grin widens, looking entirely too predatory for a human face now. You can smell his arousal.

"Bitch," he croons. "You're a bitch. You're all bitches."

Oh, darling, whisper sweet nothings in my other ear.

Your heart bangs painfully against the inside of your ribs. It's hard to keep your breathing steady. The hair on the back of your neck hackles so hard it's painful.

You step backward. He follows, eager for the hunt. How often has he done this? Are you the first, or the hundred-and-first woman he's taken to some back road? Despite yourself, you bare your teeth at him.

He laughs. The tip of the K-bar traces a figure-eight, threat and promise. You back further, trying to put distance between your skin and his knife. Further from Libby. Further from safety. His teeth are bared too, no humor in the expression.

"Bitch," he whispers, as the moon peeks over the horizon behind him..

"Yes," you whisper back.

He pauses, fixed smile flowing away as his eyes widen.

You let the moon-change take you.

Laughably slow, he turns to run, as if, on two legs, he thinks he might outrun a wolf on four. You let him get his fingers on the door handle before you pull him down with your teeth in the back of his neck. Biting down, you shake him, until his breath rattles out and his sphincter relaxes.

That's dinner taken care of. Tomorrow morning, you'll find a filling station.

C. A. Collins

That One CCR Song