Harvey Prindle prided himself on being efficient. He’d killed thirty-seven hitchhikers on Black Hollow Mountain without once missing dinner. He had the timing down to a science: pick them up, wait until they asked where he was from, then—WHACK. Simple.

But tonight’s hitchhiker wasn’t simple.

The guy climbed in, grinning like a Halloween pumpkin, and said, “Thanks. I kill anyone who picks me up.”

Harvey laughed. “Ha! Good one.”
The hitchhiker didn’t laugh. He pulled out a Bowie knife.
“Oh,” Harvey said.

They stared at each other in the dim glow of the dashboard. Then, simultaneously, they attacked.

Harvey swung his trusty ice scraper—WHACK!—only to shatter the radio knob. Sinatra crooned “Fly Me to the Moon” as blood sprayed from Harvey’s split knuckles. The hitchhiker lunged with the Bowie knife—SHUNK!—straight into the dashboard. Now it was stuck, quivering in the air vents.

“Ugh,” Harvey muttered, tugging the blade.
“Don’t touch that, it’s mine!” the hitchhiker snapped, tugging too.

The knife came free suddenly, slashing the ceiling, and both men screamed—not from wounds, but because the airbag deployed with a deafening WHOMP!, punching them both in the face.

The truck swerved. Harvey grabbed the wheel, but the hitchhiker stomped the brake. They fishtailed, hit a guardrail, and the ice scraper flew from Harvey’s hands, clonking him on the forehead like a cartoon frying pan.

“Stop trying to kill me while I’m trying to kill you!” Harvey yelled, dazed.
“Same to you!” the hitchhiker roared.

They grappled, trading ineffective blows: Harvey headbutted the hitchhiker but knocked himself silly; the hitchhiker tried strangling Harvey with a seatbelt, only to click it into the buckle mid-wrestle and trap himself.

By now, the truck was barreling downhill backward, lights flashing, Sinatra still crooning about the damned stars.

“Pull the brake!” Harvey screamed.
“You pull the brake!”

Neither did. The truck launched off a curve, flipped, and landed miraculously upright in a roadside ditch. Both men staggered out, bloodied but alive.

They stood panting, glaring.
“…Truce?” Harvey gasped.
“Hell no,” said the hitchhiker, swinging the Bowie knife again.

It slipped out of his slick hands and buried itself in his own boot. He howled, hopped, tripped, and cracked his skull on a rock. Dead in an instant.

Harvey laughed in disbelief. “Guess I win.”

Then the truck’s fuel tank exploded behind him.

The sheriff found their charred remains hours later, both corpses wearing the same stupid grins.
“Unstoppable force, immovable object,” he muttered. “Figures they’d cancel each other out.”

The deputy squinted at the wreck. “Think there’s anyone else crazy enough to hitchhike or pick up hitchhikers on this mountain?”
The sheriff chuckled. “Not anymore.”

*****

Weekly World News

Local News You Can Trust Since 1894

DOUBLE FATALITY ON BLACK HOLLOW MOUNTAIN: AUTHORITIES BAFFLED, LOCALS SHRUG

By Doris Kettle, Staff Writer

BLACK HOLLOW — Authorities were called late Tuesday evening to investigate a fiery truck crash on Black Hollow Mountain that left two men dead in what Sheriff Dalton described as “a murder-suicide, except they both had the same idea.”

The victims, identified as Harvey Prindle, 63, of Black Hollow, and an as-yet-unidentified hitchhiker believed to be in his late 30s, were discovered near a wrecked Ford pickup. Both men were armed with “a wide assortment of improvised and professional murder equipment,” according to police reports, including an ice scraper, a hunting knife, a length of rope, and three separate bottles of Windex.

Sheriff Dalton stated, “It looks like Mr. Prindle was a serial killer who targeted hitchhikers. Unfortunately for him, this particular hitchhiker was also a serial killer who targeted drivers. Best we can tell, they attempted to kill each other at the same time, with results about as messy as you’d expect.”

The truck reportedly rolled down the mountain during the struggle, at one point deploying airbags, breaking the radio, and “launching both men into a slapstick brawl.”

Deputy Cline, first on the scene, said, “They must’ve gone at it real hard. One guy strangled himself with the seatbelt, and the other knocked himself out with his own ice scraper. Then the truck exploded. Honestly, if it wasn’t a crime scene, it would’ve been kind of funny.”

Local residents expressed little surprise. “Harvey was a nice enough fella,” said neighbor Edith Long, 82. “Always waved, always shoveled his walk. Never suspected he was killin’ folks up there. But you know, now that you mention it, he did keep his garage awfully clean for a man who never parked inside.”

Another resident shrugged. “Mountain’s haunted, everyone knows it. If the ghosts didn’t get ’em, each other would’ve.”

The sheriff’s office has assured the public that hitchhiking and driving on Black Hollow Mountain is now “probably safe, or at least safer than it was last week.”

Funeral arrangements for Mr. Prindle will be announced once enough of him is located. The other man remains unidentified, though police described him as “smiling even in death, which is frankly unnerving.”

*****

And, you know I mustn’t neglect the obligatory shameless self-promotion. New Yesterdays is available through the following links: Books-A-Million, Barnes & Noble, and Amazon as well as your favorite bookshops. The Audiobook is available from Libro.fm, as well as Amazon.