There’s A Killer On The Road, His Brain Is Squirmin’ Like A Toad — The doors – Riders on the Storm

Stopping after four hours of roads, in the need of good whiskey on the rocks.

A diner to the right. Turning the engine off, lit a cigarette, relax a little bit. Watching the sunset behind a mountain covered by pine trees.

Last hit on the smoke. Leaving the car, the good feeling of the body and his muscle stretching. The fresh air of the evening on the face, birds singing their last songs before going to sleep.

Heading to the dinner. Sitting on the table, looking at the other patrons. Tired, pensive faces. Feeling like eating a burger.

A waitress coming, ordering a whiskey on the rock.

Waiting. Looking at the window to see the decor going dark slowly. Cars and trucks passing by, headlights hurting the eyes. Looking again at the other clients. Silence. Peaceful.

Whisky arrives. The sounds of the ice cube hitting the glass, the good smell of alcohol.

Taking the first sip, always the most difficult one. Taking the time, enjoying the taste of the liquor, smiling. Resting the head and the shoulder on the couch. Looking up at the celling, the fans move slowly, hypnotizing. The neon lights gently projecting their lights.

Taking a look at the phone, no message nor call. Great. Sweet loneliness. Putting the phone back in the pocket. Thinking of the roads still ahead, not knowing yet if sleep will be an inconvenience. Hoping for a motel if needed.

The lady alone across the dinner, she’s pretty. Yet, alone. Wondering why. Maybe attractive people love to be alone too. Hoping to catch her eyes. Hoping to not look like a creep.

Looking at this overweight middle aged white men. Blue jeans have seen better day. Generic and used boots, a black denim jacket. Three days old scruffy beard. Black sunglass. Half eaten burger on the plate. A beer.

A young black man. Look cool. Prestigious university coat, reading a newspaper. A pen in his hand, a notebook laying next to his phone, the kid his probably studying. Dedication, futur of this country.

A woman, skinny. Wrinkles marking his faces. A pack of cigarettes on the table, next to French fries. Plate almost empties. Wearing a white shirt with no sleeve. She don’t fear the cold night coming. She looks in front of her, her gaze lost somewhere in her mind. Her elbow on the table, the hands joined together. Almost look like she’s praying.

The waitress at the counter browsing her phone. Her shift probably over or about to be. Her long and curvy black hair are beautiful. Her nail are done, can hear them touch the screen of the phone.

Marving Gaye voice singing smoothly, he wonders what’s going on.

Everyone here seem to have a question, they need answer.

They maybe need a gun.

Could wipe out mine and finish every one of them, for no reason.

Why not?

The calling of senseless violence forcing it’s way in the brain.

Breathing slowly, keeping a straight mind. Alcohol doesn’t help… or do. A slowly growing panic attack.

There’s already a dead body in the truck of the car.

Leaving a good tip for the waitress. Leaving.

Turning the engine on.

Get back on the road.

Appearance is such a lie. Being normal is too easy.

Might hunt for another victims when coming back home. Can’t stop.

Self hate.

Feelings of superiority.

A monster. I am a monster.

Jaskiers