Tales From the Gas Station 2 by Jack Townsend

Author:Jack Townsend [Townsend, Jack]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2019-08-09T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter Thirteen

When it comes to ambulances and ambulance rides, I wouldn’t exactly call myself an ‘expert,’ but I’m no novice, either. I’ve taken more than my fair share. Enough that I could tell that something was definitely wrong here.

The first red flag came at the start of my ride, when one of the EMT’s gave me some pills for the pain without asking about my allergies or current medications or even the pain itself. The girl, a skinny goth with a neck tattoo and septum piercing, put the drugs in my hand and said “take these” before handing me a bottle of water to chase it with. I didn’t think too much about it. They were the experts, after all.

The guy, a bleached blonde with a cauliflower ear and raised scars on his left cheek, redressed my leg wound while the medicine kicked in. In a matter of minutes, I was high out of my mind and couldn’t feel anything anymore.

After a while, the two of them sat back and started talking.

The guy said, “He’s not gonna remember any of this, is he?”

She answered, “When he wakes up, he’ll be lucky to remember his name.”

I asked, “Who are you guys talking about?”

The guy looked at me with surprise. “How’s he still awake?”

She shrugged, “Fuck if I know.”

As if things weren’t weird enough already, this ambulance ride didn’t end the usual way: at a hospital. For some strange reason, we stopped outside the sheriff’s station. The two EMT’s threw me into a wheelchair and delivered me unto Deputies Moustache and Buzzcut. I might have been tempted to panic, considering I knew these guys were knee-deep in murder conspiracies, but that mystery medicine was terribly effective at keeping me from caring about anything.

They put me in a small room with a metal table and two chairs and left me alone long enough for the high to wear off and dread to set in.

Eventually, the door opened and a short, round man with a cherubic face and thin comb-over entered. He had tiny glasses, beady eyes, and a simpering smile. When he saw me, he walked straight over, extended his hand, and greeted me. “Good evening, Mr. Townsend. My name is John Normal, and I will be your if you cannot afford an attorney attorney today.”

He wore a black suit, blue shirt, and striped red tie. I shook his hand and watched him take his seat and open his briefcase before I asked, “Why do I need an attorney?”

He sorted through some papers as he answered, “Oh, well, technically, you don’t need one. But trust me, it’s a good thing I’m here. The charges against you are pretty grim, but don’t worry.”

I wasn’t worried until I heard my lawyer say ‘Don’t worry.’

“What charges?” I asked.

“Well, I’ve only been briefed on your case—ha! Brief case—but it doesn’t look great for you. This is a classic ‘he said/he said,’ and Mister Middleton has retained an impressive counsel.”

“I’m very lost. Am I in some kind of

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