So there I was, sittin' at Gus’s Asteroid Bar, sippin' on a lukewarm mug of moonshine and mindin' my own business, when ol' Rusty sidles up to me, lookin' like he’s got a story to tell. Now, Rusty’s known for spinnin' a yarn or two, but this one? Well, it had my ears perked up real good.
He leans in close, like he don’t want no one else hearin', and says, “Billy, you ain’t gonna believe what I heard from a feller passin' through last night. See, there was this fella drivin' one o' them old beat-up haulers down a lonely stretch o' asteroid belt—ya know, the kind where it’s all dark, and the only thing keepin' you company is the hum o' your engines and the thwack-thwack of the meteoroid deflectors.”
Now, accordin' to Rusty, this fella was just tryin' to get home, easin' up on the thrusters 'cause the weather was worse than a Daymar dust storm. Visibility was shot to heck, like flyin' through a curtain o' thick water. Fella had his eyes glued to the glow of his headlamps, with the space dust makin' all sorts o' racket on his cockpit—kinda like static hissin' over an old radio.
Well, he’s cruisin' along, and through all that, he spots somethin’—a figure in a orange ragged space suit just standin' there on the edge of on of the old mining cranes, thumb stickin' out like he's hitchin' a ride. Now, you’d have to be crazier than a two-headed mule to be hitchhikin' in weather like that, but there he was, just standin' there, waitin’ on a lift.
The pilot pulls over, bein' a decent fella and all, and this hitcher jumps in quicker than a comet, shakin' off the dust and taking off his helmet. He was a scruffy lookin’ guy, with wild red hair, beard all bushy—looked like he’d been livin’ out in the wilds for weeks. The driver, tryin' to make small talk, says, “Awful weather, ain’t it?”
Hitcher just looks at him, water drippin' down his face, and goes, “Yep. Sure is.”
They get to flying' again, and the pilot asks, “Where ya headin’?” Hitcher just points and says, “Terminus,” without much more detail. Didn’t look like he was in a chattin' mood. But every now and then, the hitcher kept glancin' over his shoulder, like he was expectin’ somethin'—or someone—to come barrelin' outta the dark after ‘em. Pilot asks if he’s alright, and the hitcher just nods, but he ain't convincin' no one.
Now, Rusty pauses here, takes a swig of his drink, and continues. “This is where it gets good, Billy” he says. “They’re flyin’ along, and the radio starts up with a news bulletin. Turns out there was a report from one o' them Klesher facilities —said a patient had escaped from their most restricted ward. Fella was described as dangerous, history of... well, you know, slicin’ and dicin’ folks.”
The pilot’s eyes go wide, and before he can say a word, the hitcher leans over and switches the station to some weird Banu advert. “I hate the news,” he says, all casual-like. “Ain’t never nothin’ good. Just brings a fella down.”
Pilot don’t say nothin', just keeps starin' at the guy, wonderin' if he oughta be nervous or not. And then, real calm, the hitcher says, “Don’t worry, I ain't the killer.” He’s fiddlin' with his coat, lookin' the pilot straight in the eyes, and smiles. “I mean, you don’t think I am, do ya?”
Rusty finishes his story with a grin, leans back in his chair, and says, “Pilot never did find out if that fella was tellin' the truth or just messin' with him. Dropped him off at the next stop and hightailed it outta there. But I tell ya, Billy, next time I see a hitchhiker on a stormy night, I’m keepin' my cab locked up tighter than a barn in winter.”
And I just sat there, starin’ into my drink, thinkin’ maybe Rusty had a point. Some rides you don’t wanna take, no matter how lonely the road gets.
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