Down a lonely stretch of state road in the American Midwest the lightning was crashing and the thunder was rolling and the rain was coming down in sheets as thick as lead. The zombie dragging down the middle of the lonely stretch of highway, on its stomach, had no idea what ran it over nor did the driver of the modified 18 wheeler know what he hit. You see, he had other priorities, namely trying to drink his tomato soup from his thermos before it got cold and jabbering to on his CB radio to his loyal listening audience of zero.

{This is Jack Burton coming to you from the Land of the Dead, that's B-u-r-t-o-n for those of you that are still kicking ass and taking names out there in Zombieland. I'll tell you what this is folks; this is one hell of a perfect world we are living in. No tolls, weigh stations, or fine men and women of law enforcement collecting my hard earned pay check. 'Did you feed the meter Jack?' 'Yes ma'am, every other Friday like clockwork.'} He sipped the Campbell's soup and lamented adding Tequila to it, but he was fresh out of bourbon.

{I've driven all over this country of ours and I can promise you this folks, gas has never been cheaper… and hell I can even pump my own gas in the fair state of New Jersey. God, New Freaking Jersey… most people make fun of the place, but me? I like it. It reminds me of my second ex-wife: it smells bad, it looks worse every time I see it, and just when I think that I've seen the worst of part of it, it rolls over and shows me where the remote has been hiding for two weeks. 'Will I sign the divorce papers?' Hell sweet pea, I'll have them dipped in bronze and I'll engrave my name on them.} He lit up a half burned cigar; he had never been a smoker before the dead started walking the Earth, but what was he worried about, cancer? He wasn't even worried about igniting the crate of dynamite behind his seat, much less the tanker of diesel fuel he was hauling as he fired up his Zippo.

{Jesus, marriage… There's a reason they refer to it as an institution friend. You'd have to be crazy to get mixed up in that, green eyes not withstanding… me? I am shopping for future ex-Mrs. Burton number four. Call me a helpless romantic, or a Thorazine addict, which ever I can find first. If I could find a CAT scanner I have my head examined. But I digress…}

{Let's ask our man on the street… Hey old timer, what do you think of marriage?}

[Arghraaaa flahaaa rallsh hehhhh]

{Thanks there old timer, God bless you! Poor guys all choked up *gunshot*. Wow, he must have married Courtney too, poor guy... God, it got on my favorite shirt… awe, Jesus… that's never coming out. Do you know how hard it is to find a good dry cleaner these days? I'll tell you what, that's one job I wouldn't want in the Zombie Apocalypse. That and a grave digger, 'Jesus, didn't I just bury you?' Talk about a long day at the office.}

He released the button on the hand set to try to wipe his hand off and a woman's snarky voice blurted over the CB, [Jesus, doesn't he ever shut the hell up?]

(Shhh, I like him…) said a smaller female voice.

An insecure male voice stuttered, =Do you t-think he knows to take his finger off the button?=

A male voice with a southern drawl interjected, -Of course he knows to take his finger off the button. The man's a professional, now let him work…-

Clamping his forefinger back down on the CB's broadcast button Jack plodded on with the show, {I appreciate your insight, but I don't take callers until the bottom half of the hour… Now for those of you just tuning in, this is Jack Burton coming to you from the cab of the Five Fingered Express, that's B-u-r-t-o-n… and I know what you're thinking… 'You named her that because you stole that truck, didn't you Jack?' No ma'am, the keys were in the ignition… Nah the Five Fingered Express was the nickname I gave my third wife and it has nothing to do with shop lifting folks. If you don't get that joke then you're entirely too young to be listening to the program. Parental advisory here folks: this show is rated PG-13. Parents Strongly Cautioned -Some material may be inappropriate for children under 13.}

Through the torrent of rainfall Burton saw the road sign and knew what was on it, even though he couldn't read it through the deluge: Rest Area Next Right. He smirked having never seen one that said next left, for obvious reasons. He took the next turn faster than he probably should have and came to a stop in front of the rest area.

Still in the cab he hung up the CB transmitter and pulled on a large trench coat over his t-shirt which appeared to have a Chinese congee symbol but was actually two stick figures 'doing it doggie style'. He put on his battered Harley Davidson trucker hat and reached down beside his seat for the ancient looking Tech-9 SMG pistol he kept stored there. He checked the guns action and then placed a plastic grocery over it to keep it dry.

(Are you still there?), asked the small female voice over the speaker.

{Yeah little lady, making a pit stop… If I'm not back in ten minutes then call the President. You can tell him that he just lost the last best hope for mankind…} He hopped down from the cab and shut the door as he was instantly soaked, he laughed. "'A brave man loves the feeling of nature on his face Jack…' yeah and a wise man has enough sense to get in outta the rain," he muttered as he stepped under the awning for the rest stop. He saw motion ahead in the darkness and whispered, "Queue up the fight music, here we go…"