Big Time Truckin: True Trucking Stories
Dispatch 1: The Chicago Cannibal
by Kirk Gonnsen
The big rigs never rest when it comes to Chicago. At 10 PM, a horde of trucks was roaring east and west on I-90 as I approached the mid-western hub of the trucking industry.
My rig is a white MACK; the kind with the chrome bulldog riding on the center of the hood. I call her Mable because she's my first, and the name reminds me of the kind of ugly little virgin that you unsuspectingly fall in love with. That was the case with me and Mable. She was small and under-powered, the sleeper was cramped and she wasn't pretty. She had been abused by her former drivers: banged up bumper, scrape marks all around, and the driver's seat was mangled. But I loved her all the same. Or maybe, maybe I had been driving too long, and I was going road crazy like all the other drivers out here.
I turned up the volume on my CB and listened to the chatter in the hopes of hearing a road report. A call went out: "Eastbound, how's she lookin'?"
"You got a clear shot to the city." A voice responded."
"Thank you, Driver."
A clear shot. Good news for all us Westbounders. A few more miles and I could sneak into the Burger King Oasis on the top of the city, curl up in Mable's bunk and sleep until morning. Delivery time wasn't until 9 AM.
But my peace of mind was quickly shattered. A powerful voice, clear and loud, boomed over the radio.
"This is the Cannibal."
No ordinary voice. No ordinary CB. This was a home unit. Megawatts of power, a power mike, a super-antenna. He overpowered all the road CB traffic.
"This is the Cannibal."
The voice didn't flinch, or fail. There was no stutter or pause to consider his words. This was no joke. He sounded like Charles Grodin after a bottle of Jack and a handful of methamphetamines.
"Anybody out there want to watch me jerk off into my hand?"
A pause. Silence.
"And EAT IT?" the Cannibal beckoned.
The CB rang with responses. The bible thumpers jumped on the Cannibal's sins, denouncing him. The road ragers screamed their disapproval just as they screamed at anything that interrupted their rants. The old timers cursed his disrespect for channel 19.
"Do any of you drivers want to watch me jerk off into a cheeseburger and eat it?" The Cannibal asked.
"That's a damn waste of a good cheeseburger," some Driver responded. But this was just what the Cannibal wanted. An audience of one.
"Do you own a dog?"
"Yeah, sure do. A big ole Lab."
"When you get home, do you jerk him off?"
"You're a sick motherfucker," The other driver screamed.
"I bet you leave your dog to suffer. You don't let him fuck anything and you keep him chained up and he suffers. The poor bastard. At least I give my dog a good release every once in a while."
There was no response from the other Driver. Maybe he was out of range already. Or maybe the Cannibal devoured him in the confusion of canine morality. Every driver that passed me looked into my cab to see if I was the man behind the voice of the Cannibal. And I looked at them, thinking the same.
"Is anybody out there looking for conversation with no obligation?" the Cannibal continued.
"Howdy Driver." Somebody else answered, unaware of who he was talking to.
"It's my birthday today." The Cannibal said.
"Oh, happy birthday, Driver. It's a shame you have to work on your birthday."
"If I fill my mouth with warm water will you dip your sack in it, like a tea bag?"
Silence. Another driver eaten alive by the Chicago Cannibal. I couldn't stop laughing.
For the next ten minutes I listened while the Cannibal ate victim after victim. Their cries went unanswered on the airwaves over the interstate. Cannibal sang a song about his penis, a request from another Driver; a fan, or possibly a fellow tribesman. And just as I was going out of range, I heard him repeat his call.
"This is the Cannibal. I'm the biggest, the baddest. That's the Cannibal status."
"Anybody out there want conversation with no obligation?"
