I was driving back to Atlanta after fulfilling my filial duty and had just crossed the state line. Georgia is populated by big cities then miles of emptiness. I had been driving on this particular path of desolation for about an hour and it showed no signs of ending. Hopefully there was a gas station around here because I was definitely running low on fuel. I glanced to my right and saw three guys talking against a pick-up truck. I made up my mind to stop and ask them how far it was to the next gas station. Then one of the guys pulled out a baseball bat and hit the other in the stomach. After this evident display of unfriendliness I drove on past. As I drove I noticed something, two of the guys were rednecks. I had grown up in a town were rednecks were an institution so I had some skill at recognizing them. The dirty white wife beaters straining over beer guts and baseball bats were dead give aways. I had decided to be a bad Samaritan (not that the thought bothered me) but that was before I recognized the rednecks. Ever since the principle of my primary school gave me two weeks of detention for saying that I didn't believe in God rednecks have been something of a sore spot. There's nothing like a grudge held since fourth grade. The guy who had been standing when I first drove by was now on the ground trying to protect his vitals while the two guys with barebellies kicked at him. After a moment of self-debate on the wisdom of risking my own skin I rolled down the window and yelled "Hey you! Stop that or I'll call the cops!" All the while waving around a pocket calculator trying to blur it in the hope that from a distance it looked like a cell phone. It obviously worked as the one I had christened "Tubby" stepped away and called,


while getting in one last farewell kick. The other "Bubba" muttered sneeringly "See you later fag." The got into their truck and roared off polluting all the way. After I was sure they weren't coming back I got out the check on the other guy. He was still on the ground and making little whimpering noises. I could have taken blood, broken bones, and screaming but the whimpering did me in. Humans shouldn't have to make sounds like that. For that matter animals shouldn't have to either. I squatted down by him and poked gingerly at an exposed shoulder. He was about my height give or takes an inch. I was six feet barefoot so I wasn't implying he was short, my height was a concept that I had come to accept after my teenage years.

"You alright?"

"No. Do I look alright to you?" he croaked.

Smartass. I decided to let the comment pass since he was obviously in a lot of pain and didn't know what he was saying. I looked around but didn't notice any car that could be his; actually I didn't notice any car at all.

"Do you have a car around here somewhere?" I asked.

Glancing again at the deserted highway and fields.

"Brought me here." he groaned.

Then as if on a cue he passed out. Great. Here I was on a deserted highway not a house around for miles with an unconscious man who could be, for all I knew, a serial killer or a rapist or something. I sighed and decided that if Tubby and Bubba were beating up on him the he had to be an okay person. With this skewed sort of logic I convinced myself to drag him over to my car. During this process I berated myself. You see this is what comes of being a good person. You're stuck out on a highway in the middle of nowhere with an unconscious and heavy stranger. I heaved and about half of him went into the backseat, heaved again and he conked his head on the opposite window I started to feel guilty. but then again he was unconscious and wouldn't feel a thing. Silently apologizing to my car for the blood and vomit. I shoved his legs in and slammed the door. stepping back I surveyed my handywork. Alright so the guy was sorta crammed in there, his head squished in the corner, one knee up to his chin and the other leg pointing the way to heaven as best it could in the confines of the "backseat" an area which doubled as a trunk. when I bought the car I didn't have anyone else in mind but me. It was here when I noticed what nice, long legs they were, well shaped too. He was nicely dressed. Nicely for things low in my body. Tight jeans slightly flared at the bottom and what looked like the remains of a black turtle neck. His eyes, when they had been open were a deep green. Most people who have hazel eyes say they have green eyes but very few have actual cat green eyes. These were cat green eyes, all they lacked was a slit pupil. His hair was long and when clean was probably a pure blond but now it had to be classified as bloody blond. And yeah, I know my sense of humor is twisted. All in all if you took away the darkening bruises, blood, vomit he didn't look too bad. I guess that shows how desperate I was that I was considering an unconscious stranger that was bleeding all over my backseat. Chalking it up to the notoriously bad air associated with cornfields I got in the car and started driving for the nearest city and hospital (it was on the way). We were about fifty miles away when he woke up and painfully returned all arms and legs to their proper position and sat up gingerly. He still didn't say anything. Ten minutes later he still didn't say anything. I don't take well to being ignored.

"Do you mind if look in your jacket for ID?" I asked.

He shook his head "no" and turned to look out the window. I rifled through the pocket with one hand on the steering wheel and both eyes on the jacket. An action I soon corrected when we swerved into the left lane. I found a paper bag and opened it, suspecting drugs or a murder weapon. Disappointingly enough, I found two packages of Trojan condoms (size large for the curious). Oh well, at least he wasn't celibate. These, oh so entertaining, thoughts were interrupted when I found the wallet. No money but the redneck probably took it. I pulled out the car which identified has as one Gregory Southfield resident of Georgia. As I started to put the ID back I noticed something behind it and turned it over. It was a picture of a very handsome, very naked guy. I guess the rednecks got the fag part right. Damn. I looked back, he was resting his head against the back of the seat. I held up the picture,

"This your boyfriend?"

His head snapped up and he snatched the picture out of my hands, surprising quick for someone who had just been beaten to a pulp.

"Are you going to throw me out now?" he asked softly,

"For being gay?" I snorted (not ladylike but who gives a shit),


"Nope, not unless you're an escaped maniac." I said hopefully,

"Sorry. But no."

He leaned back and closed his eyes again then he looked into the mirror,

"And I'm not gay."

Can we have cheers and applause and damn it I just passed a motel.

"I'm bi."

Picture so much mental cheering that my head burst. I figure that if a straight guy can get off watching lesbian porn then I, a slightly bent girl, can get off with two naked guys going at each other. I decided that in my current state of mind I couldn't be trusted to make a non-insulting comment so for once I kept my mouth shut. There was a ten-minute silence which was interrupted by...

"I'm gonna throw up."