#Indian Trucker

[esportopedia]

Alaskan Road Truckers is a mixture of survival and truck driver.

Alaskan road truckers no big news. Only the Polish studio Road decided to rename their long-announced game Alaska Truck Simulator. If you haven’t heard of it yet, this is not a copy of the successful American Truck Simulator and Euro Truck Simulator games from the Prague studio SCS Software, but a mixture of survival and truck driver simulator. On the occasion of the name change, annotated…

[the-californicationist]

Cali's Kinktober: Day 18

Kinktober Masterlist dis manibus - "for the ghost" Simon "Ghost" Riley x f!reader Kinks > possessive, dub con, ghosts?? Full tags on AO3 - MDNI - Read at your own risk.

In your little town of Sleepy Hollow, it’s usually not hard to make the news. But, when the headlines start bringing up ghosts from the past, and your fellow residents make claims that a ghoulish biker is attacking drivers on Route 330, you start to regret being the lone journalist in town. Legend has it that the masked rider is on the hunt for the most perfect sacrifice, and he won’t stop his reign of terror until he finds it.

Warning: actual ghosts, possession, dub con?, general spookiness

Yellowed teeth and a dangling cigarette, the stench of sweat and cheap tobacco, shaky hands and disordered movements, plus a wardrobe of ill-fitting, oil-stained jorts with a crooked-cropped Bud Light tee shirt completed Brandi Reddman’s signature look. Mrs. Reddman was standing in her usual spot outside of a dilapidated Pilot truck stop on the corner of Hatchet and Simmons. But, the leather-skinned, bleached-blonde, trailer park queen didn’t go by her late husband’s surname anymore. She preferred to be called by her well-earned title: Beaumont Brandi.

“And don’t you go putin’ no damn Reddman on my fuckin’ report,” she glared at you from her perch on the bright red bollard just outside her favorite Pilot truck stop, “Don’t even know what I’m gettin’ a goddamn ticket for. Two consentin’ adults can do whatever the hell they like, cain’t they? Ain’t this still America?”

“Ms. Brandi,” you sighed, “I’m not a cop. I’m a reporter. And I’m not sure what you want me to do when Mr. Brunson calls me down here to tell me about you tearing up his dumpsters again. You know there's a whole town full of people upset about the destruction of property here.”

Your stomach turned just thinking about writing this ridiculous article. What would the title even be? The Trash Takes Itself Out: a Sleepy Hollow tale. Or, Lot Lizard Strikes Again! With a full cover spread? No. This could not be your life. You tried to control the look of disdain on your face. 

“It wasn’t even me! That asshole is crazy!” Brandi protested, the cigarette in her mouth holding onto her dry, cracking lip with nothing more than God’s will at this point. 

“He said he saw you and a certain truck driver come out of the alcove just a few hours ago,” you reiterated.

“Hell, no. I ain’t gonna fuck no John in no smelly-ass dumpster. I’m a high class lady,” Brandi gestured to her ensemble, “And I’m tellin’ you, that lock was busted before I even stepped over here this mornin’. It’s that damn haint is what it is.”

The Haint of Sleepy Hollow. The Hollow’s Hell Rider. The Ghoul of 330. He went by many names, or sometimes, he was just called The Ghost. 

Back in the late seventies when everyone was doing a little too much of everything, your town earned a bit of a reputation. There had been a string of disappearances off of the local highway, Route 330, and locals claimed to have seen a masked soldier on a motorbike, fresh home from Saigon, carrying his M16 slung across his back and wearing a skull mask over his face. He was riding an Indian 900, blacked out with no headlight and no plate. 

Of course the truckers had been the first ones to sound the alarm, and there was a city-wide manhunt for any bikers matching that description. But back then, no one had cameras in their hands as readily as they did now, so it was all just a bunch of hearsay and over-exaggerated stories about the boogeyman. 

But, that’s all it was. Just stories. There was no masked rider. 

“Hey, you got another one of those?” Brandi pointed to the pack of smokes in your pocket that you’d brought along to bribe her with. 

You sighed, lighting one for her and then for you. You told yourself you needed it to get through the rest of this conversation. 

As she took a long drag, her timbre changed. She became quieted by her own voice, it seemed.

“I seent him, though. He was there. Parked under the bridge.”

She pointed to the overpass, her wrinkled finger trembling a bit as she guestered to the black shadows under the highway. You followed her line of sight, trying to imagine a dark rider in a skull mask, parked in the umber and looking for vengeance in the most boring town in New England. 

“Did he do anything?” You asked, trying your best to scrounge up something more interesting than sex work in gas station parking lots for this write up. 

Beaumont Brandi stared into the darkness with you, remembering… or maybe she was just fucking with you. But, it didn’t seem like it. She took another puff of smoke into her mouth, hissing it out through her stained teeth, 

“No, but it felt like he was looking for somethin’. Felt… lonely. I dunno.”

Shaking you from the eerie moment Brandi had crafted between you both, a big, rumbling Mack truck pulled into the back lot, turning your gaze away from the bridge. Your interviewee hurried to smoke one more pull from her pilfered cigarette and gathered up her glittery, denim purse. 

“That’s my ride. See you around,” she said, her voice still distant and restrained, lacking all of the ruffled animosity she’d presented to you earlier. 

You stayed there, watching her scamper across the wide, drab concrete field, dodging pot holes and puddles, heading for the blue semi that had just parked in the trucker wash station. You watched her until she knocked on the door, standing on her tiptoes to reach the wide passenger window, shuffling around until the latch popped open and she disappeared inside. 

The dark hollow of the highway’s bridge caught your gaze as you turned away from Brandi and her “ride”, and a cold chill shot down your spine. As you peered into the shadowy underpass, a lone biker, all in black, was sitting on his Indian motorcycle, staring right at you. His body was enormous. Even though the bike he rode was large, he was simply unfathomably tall and broad. When he leaned forward on the handlebars, idling there, his shoulders bulged in his leathers, threatening to break free. He was wearing a full-face helmet, but you could feel his eyes burning into your skin. 

The problem was, you had no idea how he got there. You hadn’t heard his engine rev, and you knew you would’ve been able to listen to the roar echo through the underside of the highway, it’s enclosure making an accidental amplifier. 

You stared back at him, but you reached into your pocket and clutched your car keys. Everything in your body was telling you to run. So, you quickly turned away, needing to force yourself to break your gaze, making yourself walk briskly back to your beat-up Miata. 

Get in, and drive away, you told yourself. Get in. Drive away. Get in…

You were trying to calm yourself down, your mind feeding you a million excuses as to why you hadn’t heard him approach, or telling yourself it was just a guy on a bike and not a ghost, but you could still feel your heart in your throat, pounding away like a fist inside your veins. 

Popping open the door to your car, you climbed in and immediately shut it behind you. Luckily, the soft canvas top of your ratty old convertible was already pulled up, but the sooner you got back to your apartment, the better you would feel. You cranked the engine, threw it in reverse, and sped off out of the gas station parking lot, sending your work bag spilling out across the floor. 

As you pulled onto Hatchet, you headed east, avoiding 330. You tried to tell yourself it was because you enjoyed the senic route instead of the shorter path, but you knew that was a lie. 

Behind you, you heard the roar of a bike. 

You looked in your rearview mirror, but you didn’t see any headlights. Then, as you checked the side mirror, you saw him. It was the blacked out biker from the bridge. He was riding close to your back wheel, sitting in your blindspot, staring hard at you. 

He followed you for miles. You doubled back, avoiding red lights, trying to make circles so he would get tired of tailing you, but he never did. If anything, he was getting braver and braver, moving his bike up and down the length of your car. Getting in your way, toying with you just to get a reaction. 

You tried to speed up, but your junker was no match for his machine. So, you turned into a neighborhood, trying to lose him in the curvy, bumpy side streets. 

He followed, and you felt your breath catch in your chest. With every turn, he would drive up next to your window to peer inside, staring straight into your eyes. You almost hit the curb, and when you finally exited the neighborhood, you took a right, trying to race him on a wider road. 

It was one lane, but he didn’t seem to care. He reached out and planted his gloved hand on the glass of your driver’s side window as if he was trying to touch you through it, and you screamed at him through the glass, illogically,

“Leave me alone!”

He threw his head back, and you knew he was jeering at you. If a masked, faceless being could laugh, that’s what it would look like. 

You had no idea what else to do, so you got aggressive. You swerved, trying to sideswipe him, desperate to get rid of your masked tormentor. 

He dodged, nimbly moving himself out of your way. Then, he was right behind you, so you slammed on the brakes. 

There was no way for him to stop in time. No way. 

But, it didn’t matter. You watched in horror in your mirror as his bike and his body dematerialized, and he faded into a black mist, filling the interior of your tiny car, and reconstituting itself in your passenger seat. Your nose filled up with the smell of stale cigarettes and something undeniably masculine. His body filled in next to you in inky layers, pouring from a gas to a solid like smoke into a bottle, and what was supposedly impossible was becoming very, very real in your car. 

You screamed, pressing the brakes even harder, coming to a full, screeching stop in the middle of the road. No one was behind you yet, but you wished there would be. You prayed for someone - anyone - to turn down your street and find you stopped in the middle of it. 

The ghost - because what else could he be? - was staring straight at you, as if he was waiting for something.

“Leave me alone,” you begged, your voice feeling so small and strained. 

You were staring into your own eyes, seeing your face as it was warped and contorted in the gleaming black shine of his helmet visor. Suddenly, you felt your car lurch forward, and it was moving on its own. You tried to turn the wheel, and your foot was glued down onto the brake, but nothing you did mattered. The car was driving itself.

You yanked at your seatbelt and pulled on the door handle, trying to throw yourself from the car, but it wouldn’t budge. You ripped at the handle even harder, trying to slam your shoulder into the door, ignoring the pain. In a last-ditch effort, you reached into the steering column and pulled the keys from the car, hoping to kill the engine. But, it didn’t. Your vehicle was taking you wherever your ghost wanted to go, and there was nothing you could do about it. 

With your keys held tightly in your fist, you lashed out at the biker, using the metal shards to rake across his mask, scratching the visor. 

The speed with which he reacted startled you, and as his hand wrapped itself around your wrist, he tilted his head to the side as if to study you, curious about you and your choices. 

You felt your throat burn with despair, and tears ran from your eyes. 

“Please don’t kill me,” you sobbed, trying to pull your wrist away. 

He yanked your arm to his chest, tugging your body closer to his, forcing you into his space and taking you almost out of your seat, if it wasn’t for your belt. 

You were face to helmet with him, and you could smell the menthols that inexplicably clung to his clothes. He could touch you, and you could touch him. He felt so real, so warm. And yet…

Slowly, he reached out to you with his other hand to touch your face, caressing your cheek and wiping away a stray tear. The feel of his leather glove was so gentle against your skin, it made your head spin. His earlier aggression was still fresh in your mind, and you sobbed from the fear. 

Out of nowhere, a pickup truck swerved around your stopped car, blaring its horn at you, kicking up dirt from the side of the road, obviously upset at the stopped Miata in the middle of a street. 

In the few seconds your attention was snatched from the ghost in front of you, he disappeared. Your passenger seat was immediately empty, and you were alone once more. Your car was dead since your keys were in your hand, and the clicking of a warm engine cooling down was the only noise you heard. 

Another car was honking behind you, less aggressively than the pickup, but it moved around you and you turned back in your seat. 

As you drove home, you were numb. You couldn’t reconcile anything that happened to you, and you had no words to even describe it. You thought about driving to the police, or to your office so that your phantom biker wouldn’t know where you lived, but something in you laughed at your naivety. Why would that matter? He was a ghost. He could reach you no matter where you were. You might as well leave your front door wide open for how much good it would do you. 

When you finally crawled into bed, you left every light in the house on, but it didn’t help.

It was 0417 when you jerked out of your restless sleep, opening your eyes in your unusually bright room. You were breathing heavily, trying to calm yourself down, and the horrors of the night before felt more like a bad dream than a true memory. 

You looked around, trying to determine whether you could manage to go back to sleep or not, when a faint noise pricked your ears. It was coming from outside your apartment window, down in the parking lot below your balcony. 

You sprang out of bed and pulled your curtain. There, parked and sitting on the side of his bike, was your ghost. He was looking up at your window, his arms crossed over his chest. He looked like he was waiting for you. Waiting for you to say something, to do something. But, you didn’t know what.

Grabbing your keys, you flew out of your door and rushed down the stairs, hurrying to see if you could catch him. But, he was gone. You didn’t even know what you wanted to say to him, but you needed to know the truth. Your instincts as a reporter were driving you forward. You craved answers, needed them. 

You turned back around and headed for your car, starting it up and driving out of your complex, back onto the street. You headed for the highway, and he was waiting for you, parked on the shoulder. He took off, and you followed him, swerving in and out of early morning commuters, pushing your crappy Miata to its limit. 

He took the exit toward the old part of town, turning on the road to Ichabod Farm, cutting his speed and letting you catch up to him. Then, as he got further and further away from civilization, the farms turned into forests, and the roads went from pavement to dirt. Just as the sun was staining the clouds with its pink dawn, he stopped, sticking his leg out as a kickstand, and turned around to look at you. 

You waited, sitting in your car, but after a while, nothing changed. He was still just sitting there, staring back at you. So, you killed the engine, and you climbed out of your car. 

“Who are you?” You called to him, willing your voice to carry in the quiet morning. 

As if he was tired of your questioning, he turned forward. He swung his leg over the body of the bike, and stood beside it, still waiting for you. 

You started walking around to the front of your car, beginning to feel like you were a rabbit being led into its own trap, a lamb to its slaughter, and your skin tightened, the hair prickling on the back of your neck.

He put his hand out, gesturing toward the bike. 

“Do you want me to go with you somewhere?”

He seemed impatient. He stalked forward, marching in black leathers and boots, and grabbed your wrist just like he did in the car. 

“Wait! Hey! Wait, no!” You tried to fight him, but he held you fast, dragging you over to the bike. 

He lifted you without struggle and sat you on the back of his seat, and he climbed in front of you, bringing the bike back to a loud roar. He took off, nearly toppling you over, and in your shock, you wrapped both of your hands around his middle, holding on for dear life. 

To your shock, he turned off of the road and into the trees. The leaves made his tires slip and the roots of the tall yews made the ride bumpy and wild. You gripped him tighter and tighter, trying to remember which direction you were going, sure that he was taking you straight to your death, but just in case you escaped, you wanted to be able to try and make it out of the woods.

Suddenly, you came to a clearing. In the middle of it stood a huge, dead tree. The trunk had been struck by lightning, and the branches hung low, dipping towards the ground. Its roots were gnarled and popping like broken bones out of the dark earth, and it gave you a sense of immediate dread. 

He stopped the bike, throwing down the kickstand and climbing off. Then, he held out his hand to you. 

You looked at his helmet for a moment, trying to determine what he wanted, and then you realized he was trying to help you down. You placed your hand in his and felt him support you as you climbed off of the old motorcycle. 

He released you, and he stood beside you, looking up at the tree. 

You waited for a moment, again unsure about what he was trying to show you, but then you stepped forward. Something compelled you to touch the tree’s wide, twisting trunk. 

You were suddenly aware of the state of your dress. You were in socks, sleep shorts, and a tattered old tee shirt, shivering from fear and from the chilly morning. But, still, you stepped forward, moving with your hand out towards the tree, trying to ignore the pinch of stray rocks and sticks beneath your feet. 

Right before you touched the bark, you looked over your shoulder at the biker, and he was still standing there, waiting for you. 

So, you pushed forward, laying your palm against it, and you were instantly overwhelmed with flashes of images and sounds, memories which were not yours. You saw him. It was your ghost. He was fighting in a war with muskets and swords, and then he was in a trench with grenades. You watched him crawl on his belly through a wet, dense jungle. Then, you felt the heat and the sting of desert sands, and watched him dragging the bodies of his friends from the rubble of a bombed building. 

As quickly as they had begun, the visions stopped. You looked back at the masked rider, and he stepped toward you. His hands went to the neck of his jacket, and he raked the zipper down, revealing his bare chest and belly. He was riddled with scars, but he looked very much like a real man. The jacket fell with a thud on the forest floor, and he moved to shuck off his helmet. 

You watched the reveal with wide eyes and an open mouth. Black, inky smoke surrounded his face. He didn’t have a head. It was only a skull mask, cracked and broken around the edges, perched on him where his face should have been. It was just a swirling darkness, nothing else. His head was gone. 

Your heart nearly stopped.

“What… happened….” You managed to ask, your voice lower than a whisper. 

The helmet clattered to the ground, rolling until it rested against a thick root. 

He walked toward you, and you were staring into two black pits where there should have been soft brown eyes. You’d seen him in the vision. You knew what he should look like. And yet, all you were left with was this ghastly form. 

His body was warm. You could feel it as he towered over you, mere inches away from your face. You reached up to touch his cheek like he had touched yours in the car, and he let you. As your hand swiped across his jaw, you saw flesh appear where there was none before. More and more, you touched him, painting his face back on with your hands. You moved over his eyes and nose and mouth, feeling the softness of his lips and watching in awe as he became a man again. 

“Oh, my God.” You gaped, watching his face twist into an unknown expression, “You’re…”

“You made me real,” he spoke, his words sounded hellish; the noise was a terrible smear of shadow and violence. It was as if a million of voices were speaking at once. 

“I…” You were trying to talk, but he wasn’t interested. 

He leaned forward and slanted his mouth against yours, kissing you with a smoky musk on his tongue, forcing you to open and take his writhing muscle inside of your cheeks. He was breathing just as raggedly as you were, pushing himself onto you, dragging you to the leaf-covered ground. 

He repeated his mantra, gasping it, his timbre full of disbelief,

“You… made me… real…”

His mouth was on you again, the top half of his face still hidden by the skull mask. He kissed your neck, and you felt his gloved hands grabbing at your clothes, shoving down your shorts. 

“What are you doing?” You whispered. 

“You.” His voice reverberated through you like a snarl of thunder. You could feel the sound move through your bones, “You can bring me back to this place.” 

The air was cold as it billowed across your skin when he pulled away your shirt. The leather of his gloves was such a rough contrast to the smooth, furry expanse of his chest and belly, and he crushed himself against you, pressing you with all of his weight into the forest floor. 

Your mind was in a haze. All of the magic and memories from the tree were whirling around you. His many lives, all stacked together, repeated like the rings of its trunk, year after year, his wars, his scars. All of them now real and raised to the touch. 

His mouth moved over you, hungry and wanting. You weren’t ready to be taken so roughly, with so little regard, in the dirty, dank mud of this clearing. But, you wanted to be. You found yourself completely captivated by his movements, his hands, and the way he consumed you, making you feel like you were the key to his entire existence. 

You spread your legs for him, and he had the audacity to laugh softly in his ghostly throat, rolling his hips between your legs to fit himself there, spreading you further with his wide body. 

You felt the button of his leather pants loose and dangling, flapping open against your thighs which meant…

His cock lolled across your mons and belly, warm and hard. He humped himself against you, rutting along the curve of your tummy and teasing you with a preview of his strength. You reached down very slowly, stroking him carefully, barely touching his velvety foreskin, feeling the slip of it as he moved against your hand.

He let out a long, heated moan, his breath warm as it surrounded your neck, and he whispered to you in his million voices,

“Give yourself to me,” he chanted, “Bring me back.”

No sooner could you whisper back your consent than he grabbed you by your jaw and forced you to look into his black, soulless eyes. He notched his cock at your trembling hole, letting it dip into the wetness he had crafted there. Then, he pushed forward, stretching your walls around him, making you take his drooling head, raking himself in and out so that he could go deeper and deeper with each thrust. 

You cried out, grasping your hands around his shoulders, and he squeezed your face in his huge paw, making you feel like he might break your jaw if he held you any tighter. 

Once he was fully sheathed within the hollow of your body, he moved with a powerful, pistoned thrust, slamming himself through you and making your core heat from his friction. You felt yourself being broken by him, the parts of you that were holding together your sanity were slowly slipping away with each punishing movement, and the deeper you allowed him to fuck you, the further away from reality your thoughts were. You were back in his memories, imagining his life before, his warfare, ancient and modern, and all you could think about was why he would want to be back here. What did he want? Was it you?

His hand slipped between your lips, and he pressed into your throat, rubbing your tongue and making your jaw ache from his pressure and invasion. You tried to suckle from him, taking his fingers past your teeth, licking and slurping up your own spit from his glove. 

“Such a good girl. Perfect for me. A new vessel.”

Vessel? What were you holding?

You whined, trying to understand, and he silenced you with a growl, low and deep. He was fucking you at a pace full of fire and fury, and your whole body felt like it was being pounded into submission. You could hear the wet, gushing slapping noises that his cock was making as it churned inside of you. Your legs felt weak, and you couldn’t help but leave them hanging open, allowing him to fill you as deep as he could go. 

Your mouth burned from his fingers, and your pussy was begging to come, clenching and shaking with need. He felt you, and he pushed through your shuddering quim harder and harder, using you to bring himself to his own crescendo, joining you on the edge. 

“You’re mine…” He hissed, moving himself right against your most pliant spot, massaging you up to a tumbling explosion of feeling and fervent want. 

As you came, you screamed, but it was muffled by his invasive hand. He came with you, filling you as you tightened around him, dumping his thick load into your hole, smearing it all over your lips with each covetous thrust. 

Then, you couldn’t believe what you were seeing. He was melting into you, his body turning back into mist, covering your skin and seeping into your flesh. You felt him inside of you, curling and twisting around all of the parts that made you who you were, turning them for his own benefit, staining your soul with his own. 

You gasped, searching for air, watching helplessly as the last thing you saw before he disappeared completely was the black sockets of his skull mask, and it felt like he was smiling. 

You lay there, alone, and yet full of him. He was feeling and sensing and thinking right alongside you. And he was… playing with you. You could feel him moving his cock deep within you even though, when you looked down, there was nothing there. 

“Please…” You begged, closing your legs together, trying to stop the sensation from happening.

“Pretty thing,” the Ghost chuckled, “We’re just getting started.”

[pinkflipphonez]

2p rusame human au in the 1980s where dmitri is a trucker from montana who just migrated from russia and allen is an Indian cowboy from gallup who bucks at state rodeos. they meet when dmitri’s truck shuts down outside the convenience store in the reservation and allen lets him borrow his house phone (cause the public phone was knocked down months ago). it’s there that they get acquainted and allen notices dmitri has a hard time with english.

they get to talking and knowing more of each other and then allen lets him crash on his couch. allen gets an uncle to help him fix the issue with the truck the next morning and dmitri is all set to leave- but not before they exchange info. after becoming friends, allen teaches dmitri english and helps him with his citizenship test, and in exchange, dmitri teaches him how to stay on a horse better (because he worked at a horse riding school in khabarovsk).

[leohtttbriar]

oh public road, i say back

After B’Elanna and Chakotay are captured by some Louisiana hicks, they drive west. Written for trektober Day 30: road trip

B’Elanna pulled up to the gas station just as the grayness of pre-morning lit up the faded asphalt. She turned around the lot and slowed to the far pump until she could smoothly stop the car and apply the breaks. She shut off the impulse. The car was quiet but for the barely-there ticks coming from the engine as it cooled. 

Chakotay seemed to stumble awake at the new quiet, the hum of wheels on the road having ceased in the hymns and steady noise of the highway. He rubbed his eyes and looked over to B’Elanna, squinting. 

“Where are we?” he grunted. 

“Some place called Ft. Stockton,”said B’Elanna. “Apparently it’s ‘historic.’ That’s what the welcome sign said, anyway.”

Chakotay snorted and then glanced out the window. There were peeling murals on the grocery store across the street, of Hollywood-Indians riding to battle on painted horses with spears and feathered headdresses. The trim on the building was a dusty turquoise, contrasting with the pinkish brown dirt that seemed to float in the air.

“‘Historic,’” he said. “Right.”

He rubbed his face again and then said with more energy. “So, you ready to switch?” 

B’Elanna nodded. “Yeah, just need some snacks.” 

She grabbed her red bandana from the dashboard and tied it around her forehead, like she’d seen a few girls wearing it in the cities they’d passed through. She turned to Chakotay to check all was hidden. He gave her a thumbs up. Then she tossed him the keys and stepped out of the car. 

The store attached to the station had evidently only just opened for the day. It was muted even as the bell rang every minute with one tired worker after another coming in to grab a cheap coffee and a breakfast taco. B’Elanna grabbed a couple herself, and then browsed for candy and jerky and anything else she and Chakotay might want for the rest of their journey west. 

They had lifted the wallets off the men who had taken them—lifted a car straight off a used lot. Luckily, the cultish para-military hicks living in the middle of nowhere, in a place too humid (B’Elanna thought) for human settlement, were surprisingly liquid. So she happily indulged in the high-end bison jerky and the cane sugar Cokes in those antique glass bottles. 

The cashier rang up her items quickly, handing B’Elanna her bulging plastic bag without a single glance in B’Elanna’s direction. The girl behind her in line, though, winked at her from under the brim of her trucker’s cap as she chewed her cinnamon gum and B’Elanna blushed and hurried out of the store, feeling hot. 

Chakotay was twisting the tank closed on the truck as she approached.

“Find anything good?” 

B’Elanna tossed him a foil-wrapped chilaquiles taco and he held it up to his nose and groaned in delight. 

“Hell yes,” he said, palming the taco. “I love how warm they are. Makes it feel like you’re really about to eat.”

B’Elanna rolled her eyes but smiled. “Sure.” 

Chakotay slid into the driver’s seat and B’Elanna dropped into the passenger’s. 

She switched on the radio as soon as Chakotay turned the car over and the engine stuttered and rumbled. 

“I sort of get why Tom likes these things so much,” said B’Elanna, putting her feet up in the dash and unwrapping her own taco. 

“You would,” said Chakotay, sipping his coffee and eating his breakfast like it was the best thing he’d ever tasted. 

B’Elanna frowned and smiled at the same time. “Okay, what’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’ve got the bug, you know,” said Chakotay. “Romance of the highway. Smell of gasoline. Sound of the engine. The road maps. The sunglasses.” He tossed her her pair from the driver’s door. “I should get you a harmonica.”

“Shut the hell up,” said B’Elanna. She put her sunglasses on. 

And then the world blew open, bright and loud. The dawn sun blasted orange and red and white, turning the podunk buildings around them into oil paintings, turning the asphalt in a silver river, turning the desert into a candied land of browns and greens and reds. She reached down and rolled the window down and a breeze that smelled of combustion and dirt and something like dry sage slid across her face.

They had over a thousand miles to get back to their people—aliens to the time, if not this world. The terror of being captured was finally fading away as the sun shone over her west-facing eyes. 

She sipped her coffee. Then she pointed to the highway. Chakotay rolled up the foil for his taco and pulled out of the gas station and onto the road. 

B’Elanna looked to the blaring horizon and said, “I think I can see mountains.”

[zee-man-chatter]

To put this in context, Sikh extremist bombed an Air Canada 182 passenger jet bound for India. https://www.thecanadianencyclopedia.ca/en/article/air-india-flight-182-bombing

During Covid, Sikh's raised money here in Canada to send over to India for their farmer's strike against Modi during the harshest lockdowns. Indian Police officers died during the farmers protests over in India, but Trudeau did nothing to stop the fundraisers here or the money going to India, but he did lock up the peaceful Trucker's protest participants in Ottawa.

For all his tough talk to Russia, Canada has starved it's military into the ground, if he's talking tough on the world stage, he doesn't have a leg to stand on.

Sikhs regularly fly banners on the 401 to raise awareness for their homeland, as they want to secede from India. If they're that involved in Indian politics, can anyone seriously think these people are invested emotionally to be Canadians first or assimilate? So Trudeau has blown his own credibility and Canada's too with India. Probably time for him to go on the magical, pompous un-reality tour with Prince Harry, as neither of them seem to be listening to others or living in reality.

[laresearchette]

Monday, March 11, 2024 Canadian TV Listings (Times Eastern)

WHERE CAN I FIND THOSE PREMIERES?: CARPE DM WITH JUANPA (The Roku Channel) LAKEFRONT EMPIRE (HGTV Canada) 10:00pm

WHAT IS NOT PREMIERING IN CANADA TONIGHT?:

NEW TO AMAZON PRIME CANADA/CBC GEM/CRAVE TV/DISNEY + STAR/NETFLIX CANADA:

AMAZON PRIME CANADA INVINCIBLE (Season 2 Part 2) THE PRINCE OF EGYPT: THE MUSICAL

NETFLIX CANADA COCOMELON (Season 10) YOUNG ROYALS (Season 3) (SE)

MLB SPRING TRAINING (SN) 1:00pm: Jays vs. Rays

TENNIS (TSN3/TSN5) 2:00pm; Indian Wells - Early Round Coverage Day #6

NHL HOCKEY (SN) 7:30pm: Capitals vs. Jets (SN) 10:30pm: Islanders vs. Kings

NBA BASKETBALL (SN Now) 7:30pm: Suns vs. Cavaliers (TSN/TSN4) 8:00pm: Warriors vs. Spurs (SN1) 9:00pm: Raptors vs. Nuggets

MURDOCH MYSTERIES (CBC) 8:00pm: Murdoch suspects the murder of a fledgling composer may have been motivated by jealousy.

BELGRAVIA: THE NEXT CHAPTER (CBC) 9:00pm: As Clara's fascination with Stephen's world develops, she makes a bold decision that alarms Davison; James' private life finds him under threat; Frederick grows determined to become part of the Marquise's new venture.

ANCIENT BODIES: SECRETS REVEALED (Super Channel Fuse) 9:05pm (SERIES PREMIERE): Human remains are discovered near Croghan Hill, Ireland, a significant place for ancient kings; the investigation takes a turn when authorities realize the body is not a current missing person or murder victim.

SIGHT UNSEEN (CTV) 10:00pm: Jake and Tess are investigating the shooting of a trucker when the Vice Squad shows up, demanding they cut their main suspect loose before they compromise one of Vice's investigations.

INTERVENTION CANADA (T&E) 10:00pm: Find out why devoted animal rescuer Shannon is helping everyone but herself. See her terrified family try to convince her that a life of abuse, assault, and addiction is a dead end for her and her relationship with her three-year-old daughter.

TIMBER TITANS (Discovery Canada) 10:00pm: Logging teams tackle steep ground and climb some of the tallest trees in the British Columbian wilderness. Over 300 miles away,other loggers are rocked by an unexpected fall snowstorm that turns the block road into an ice track.

LAKEFRONT EMPIRE (HGTV Canada) 10:00pm (SERIES PREMIERE): Peggy's criminal past may be an issue for a couple who want a big boat dock; Justin's friends are looking for a weekend cabin getaway, and he's happy with a fixer, but she wants move-in ready.

LAWLESS ISLAND (Nat Geo Canada) 10:00pm (SEASON PREMIERE): A long winter forever changes the paths of Port Protection's residents.

[boricuacherry-blog]

It's kind of selfish too. I just like it. I'm always looking for the new new shit."

Erykah has also collaborated with Italian fashion house Marni on a capsule collection which was sold in select Marni boutiques.

"Everything is vibration and sound, from the sound of the birds that I've heard since I was a child...(to) the clothes I wear - the clothes in my Marni line all have bells on them," the Dallas native said. "So, if I associate everything with music, it's very easy for me to create...there's a variety of things I listen to throughout the day, from wind chimes in the morning to Brent Faiyaz in the afternoon to Bach - I mean, there's just so many different things. I just love music and frequency. It is my therapy."

Badu describes the Marni collection as something of an audiovisual experience, what she calls "mystical instrumental wear."

A champion for Black women and free thought, she's not only in an era of reinvention, but expansion. She's entered the cannabis industry partnering with Cookies, arguably the world's most recognizable legal marijuana brand. She's worked with Cookies co-founder Berner to create a weed strain called That Badu, also working on a mushroom tea line.

Although it's been years since Badu put out an album, she has recently gone on tour, called The Unfollow Me tour. In an interview with Vibe, she revealed the inspiration for the name of the tour - cancel culture. "Whenever someone says something in the comments, they don't agree, I don't care, unfollow me, doesn't matter," she told the magazine.

"One thing I brag about all the time is that my sister is probably the only artist I know who easily sells out arenas despite not having put out an album in almost a decade," says sibling Koryan, or Koko for short. Koko once sang backup for Badu's band, but these days acts as her sister's right hand. With a trucker hat pulled over striking waist-length platinum blonde braids, Koko carries herself like a woman who means business. Badu's turning point, she explains, came when the pandemic brought touring to a halt.

The pivot was swift and effective: the launch of Badubotron, a streaming platform hosting concerts from Badu's home that could be viewed for the nominal fee of $1. These attracted more than a hundred thousand fans enamored of Badu's elaborate costumes, wild performances, and otherworldly DIY sets. In one of her shows, Badu and her band appeared to perform inside huge inflatable bubbles. The singer's popular online merch store, Badu World Market, also went live. "We just kind of came together as a family and it was like, Oh, we actually have a company right here," says Koko, whose son, Malcolm, and daughter, Diamond, also work for brand Badu. "Everyone stepped up."

The latest family member to join the team is Badu's daughter Puma. Listening to her cover her mother's songs on TikTok, you can barely tell their voices apart. She and boyfriend Sean have been serving as Badu's personal assistants for a little over a year, which means, among other things, ensuring Badu has the 15 to 20 trunks of clothing and accessories she needs on tour. "I don't know how other family workplace dynamics go," Puma says, "but it's like a real job, and I have to buckle down and do what I need to do or else word is going to get to the CEO and I'm not going to get paid. You know what I mean?"

Inside Badu's home, it's a veritable Aladdin's cave of tchotchkes and objets d'art, with Buddha statues lining the staircase, African masks hanging on the walls, and Indian marigold garlands strung in the windows. Badu, in a silk Libertine caftan printed with pictures of monkeys in space suits, leads her guests past her recording studio to the living area, where two larger-than-life Malian brass busts have glowing sticks of incense sprouting from their heads. The fireplaces casts shadows on vintage furniture, including a throne-like peacock love seat and a retro-futurist egg pod chair. In the corner, an upright piano is buttressed by a stack of vintage Louis Vuitton trunks.

[dhaaruni]

Vega is home to fewer than 1,000 residents, the vast majority of them White. The town’s claim to fame is its location along the historic Route 66, which accounts for most of its seasonal tourism.

The town’s only South Asian residents are the truck stop’s Punjabi owners and employees and the motel owners across the highway, who are originally from Gujarat in western India. Originally from Moga, a city in central Punjab, the dhaba’s owner, Beant Sandhu, wears a dastaar (turban) and grows out his beard in line with the Sikh tenet of kesh.

“God told me to come here,” said Sandhu, leaning against a counter next to a heat-lamp display of samosas, bread pakoras and aloo patties.

[spacerose747]

Pet Sematary (1989)

Pet Sematary is a movie based on an original Stephen King book, published in 1983. In the movie our main characters, a family of four (And their cat, Church) who move out to the middle of nowhere (Ludlow, Maine) where lots of big service trucks drive through constantly. The land, about an estimated hour away from their house is an old cursed Indian burial ground where their cat (who unfortunately perishes due to the lack of care from truckers using the main road to drive through the town) is buried by the father, Louis who is a Doctor. Their neighbor Judd Birch takes him there and within the hour, Church (Now a reanimated, violent corpse) returns. As the film moves forward we see the family suffer the loss of the maid/caretaker hired to assist Rachel (the mother) with house work and the younger (Gage) and older (Ellen/Ellie) children. After days pass the family and Judd enjoy some time together, hoping to distract the children from the loss of the maid/caretaker, having a picnic not far from their house. As Rachel, Ellie and Judd sit at the picnic table preparing to eat we see Louis and Gage flying a kite. Unfortunately due to Gage's small attention span he drops the kite line and on the windy day, it begins to blow away and the excitable young child runs after as his father banters with his wife and neighbor. While Gage waddles off happily we see he goes toward the road while an unsuspecting trucker drives, distracted through. A scene or two later the toddler is buried in a regular cemetery and Rachel takes Ellie back to Chicago, to see her parents. While Mother and eldest child are in Chicago, Louis's undoing begins... He digs up his son and takes him to the Indian burial ground in hopes of bringing him back to life. Once back, the now reanimated and cursed body of the child takes out neighbor Judd and his mother who came back to check on Louis after getting some strange paranormal signs from an ex patient of Louis's. The movie closes with Louis taking his wife's dead body to the same burial ground, waiting at the house for her to return and him being killed by the same woman he loved.

Credits roll, Pet Sematary by The Ramones plays.

This movie is one of my favorites. This can be found on Max (formerly Hbo Max), Hulu, YouTube (for a price), and Amazon Prime Video!!

＊🌜*•̩̩͙💀•̩̩͙*˚🐈‍⬛˚*•̩̩͙💀•̩̩͙*˚🌛＊

wait guys. reblog this and tell me what the last movie you watched was. bonus points if you add a short review <333

[asmitabissblogger]

Gulf Oil, one of the leading brands in engine lubricants, reaffirmed its strong commitment to the well-being of Indian truckers with the 6th edition of the Gulf Superfleet Suraksha Bandhan campaign. This year, the focus was on a vital but often overlooked need—clean drinking water for truckers.

[zee-man-chatter]

‘Misuse of freedom of expression …’ India slams Canadian PM Trudeau-led govt over Khalistan issue

Trudeau came down hard on the Canadian truckers protest, even freezing bank accounts. At the same time during the height of Covid lockdowns, Sikhs in Canada were gathering and protesting every weekend against Modi's farming policies. During that time, the Indian ambassador released a video saying Trudeau badly over reacted to the truckers strike, and over used his powers. For some reason, Trudeau seems in bed with Sikhs, and I don't think Canada's relationship with India will improve until he's gone from office. Considering the fact these people are so involved in India's politics, I have strong doubts they are loyal to Canada, they're just here to make money.

[eggi1972]

[Rezension] Oh (weia) Kanada - Katerina Jacob

Klappentext: 1997 erfüllte sich Katerina Jacob ihren Kindheitstraum, ausgelöst von den Romanen Jack Londons, und reiste in das Land der Bisons, Bären und Indianer. Dort fand sie nicht nur die Liebe ihres Lebens, sondern verliebte sich auch so sehr in dieses großartige Land, dass sie beschloss, das Abenteuer einer Auswanderung auf sich zu nehmen. Sie lässt uns teilhaben an ihrem Neustart in diesem wilden, weiten Land und zeigt uns mit gut beobachteten, witzigen, ungewöhnlichen und manchmal auch sehr berührenden Geschichten ein völlig neues Kanada. Sie erzählt von Indianern, Einheimischen, die ihr Leben in der einsamen Wildnis fristen, und Auswanderern aller Herren Länder, die den Absprung mal mehr, mal weniger erfolgreich geschafft haben, ebenso wie von ihren ganz privaten Abenteuern, ob im Boot, auf dem Pferderücken oder im Flugzeug.Lassen Sie sich von Katerina Jacob in dieses großartige Land entführen und machen Sie sich bereit für eine Reise, die garantiert Lust auf mehr weckt. Rezension: Oh (weia) Kanada Mein Abenteuer vom Auswandern von Katharina Jacob gelesen von der Autorin Die kleine Peinlichkeit vorneweg. Der Name der Autorin sagte mir gar nichts, als ich das Hörbuch aussuchte. Ich dachte einfach, ein Bericht über das Auswandern in dieses Land könnte interessant sein. Und er ist es! Bei den ersten Sätzen dachte ich, die Stimme kenne ich doch. Ein kurzer Blick auf das Cover bestätigte meine Vermutung. Ich kannte sie in der Rolle einer Polizistin, die ich in der Serie bereits sehr spritzig fand. Man soll ja Rolle und Person nicht miteinander vergleichen, aber sie schreibt und liest genauso spritzig. Daher empfehle ich eher das Hörbuch, als die gedruckte Ausgabe. Die Sprache unterstreicht das geschriebene ungemein. Jetzt aber zurück zum Hörbuch. Bei autobiographischen Büchern finde ich es besonders gut, wenn der Autor selbst liest. Es wirkt einfach echter. In diesem Fall auch ein echter Gewinn! Frau Jacob erzählt mit viel Witz und auch Selbstironie von ihren Erlebnissen in Kanada. Da ich Berufspendler bin und somit Hörbücher meist im Auto höre, muss es auf die anderen Fahrer heute im Stau sehr befremdlich gewirkt haben, wie ich mich schallend lachend über dem Lenkrad krümmte. Seien es die Stech-Attacken kanadischer Moskitos, oder die besonderen Verhältnisse der dortigen Otter zu norddeutschen Strandkörben, die Bilder waren einfach greifbar und zum Brüllen komisch. Auch die Beschreibung der Landschaft kommt natürlich nicht zu kurz. Ich hatte das Gefühl, die Weite zu spüren. Erlebnisse mit anderen Menschen haben mich auch gefesselt. Insbesondere eine Begebenheit hat mich tief bewegt – die Pannenhilfe des Truckers. Er hat große Umwege und Umstände auf sich genommen und mehr geholfen als man es erwarten würde. Als Dank bittet er nur darum ein anderes Mal jemandem so zu helfen, wie er geholfen hat. Das hat mich wirklich sprachlos gemacht. Im schnelllebigen Europa, wo jeder ständig auf dem Sprung ist, kann ich mir das nicht vorstellen. Sehr Schade eigentlich, aber man kann sein Verhalten ja glücklicherweise auch verändern. Von der Ruhe und Hilfsbereitschaft kann man sich eine dicke Scheibe abschneiden. Die Natur hat mich schon vorher fasziniert. Ich hatte den Eindruck, eine tolle und auch realistische Beschreibung von Kanada zu bekommen, und meine Neugier auf dieses Land ist noch mehr gewachsen. Somit ist einer der abschließenden Wünsche der Autorin erfüllt worden. Ich denke über einen Urlaub in der Weite Kanadas nach. Titel: Oh (weia) KanadaAutor/in: Jacob, KatharinaLaufzeit: 286 min.ISBN: 9783868825978Verlag: mvg VerlagPreis: 14,99 €Erscheinungsdatum: 14. März 2024 Bei unseren Partnern bestellen: Bei Yourbook.shop bestellen. Bei Genialokal.de bestellen. Bei Hugendubel.de bestellen. Bei Thalia.de bestellen. Die Buchhandlung Freiheitsplatz.de unterstützen! Die Büchergilde FFM unterstützen! Lesen Sie den ganzen Artikel

[daemonmatthias]

I once lost control and flipped my car. I was ok— I undid my seatbelt, fell the few inches onto the windshield, forced my door open, and climbed out all on my own.

But as I looked around to get my bearings, a trucker had stopped and was running towards me. He grabbed my hands, he asked if I was ok (yes), he asked if anyone else was in the car (no), and by then another person had stopped and was coming towards us. The trucker never let go of my hands until he physically placed my hands into the other man’s hands, explaining that he was very sorry but he had to keep moving (my dad is a trucker and I know how bad it can be if they run out of time before they reach a destination).

The next man, who now had my hands, was an off-duty EMT. He explained who he was, said his daughter was getting a blanket out of the truck and would be over soon. He asked the usual questions to make sure I didn’t have a concussion. She brought it, but I said I wasn’t in shock. They insisted that I at least sit down on the blanket. More people had stopped by this point. An Indian man called 911. Some others asked if I needed anything out of my car and 2-3 people went searching for my phone. The Indian man tried to let me use his phone to call my mom, but it was in emergency call back mode. Someone else was about to hand me theirs but the others came back with mine. I called my mom, then the person I’d been driving to visit. The others trickled away— I didn’t even get to say thank you! The EMT and his daughter stayed with me and made me stay seated on the blanket until the ambulance arrived, which they had insisted on calling because sometimes with the shock or adrenaline you might not feel an injury right away. They walked with me to the EMTs before leaving.

The EMTs were very kind and seemed genuinely somewhat concerned when I declined to be taken to the hospital. One started telling me what to watch for in case I did have a concussion and visibly relaxed when I told him that my grandma was a registered nurse and lived with us. They walked me over to the cop, who kindly explained there’d be no ticket and waited with me so I could sit in his car instead of standing around by the road in the sun until someone could get me. Because it was on a toll road, he explained gently, he had to call the managing authority to report the cause, and when they answered his call, he said “you won’t believe it— it wasn’t a hog this time!”

I was a 20 year old female, alone, an hour away from home, who just flipped my car. All those people made sure I was ok. I really wish I could thank them properly.

There is good in this world. Strangers come together in difficult times. Don’t be scared to be one of those strangers that steps up or steps in.

Tell me a soft memory

[kdubya80]

Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: San Diego Gulls AHL Navy Blue Gray Indian Motorcycles Snapback Trucker Hat SGA.

[postjunk-vintage]

NEW ARRIVAL / 2024.03.27

こんばんは。

本日も8点の新着アイテムをアップしました。

ご紹介致します。

1017 ALYX 9SM Leather Chelsea Boots Black Made In Italy [38]

つい最近までGIVENCHYのCDだったマシューのブランド、アリクス。

お家芸、SKXソール搭載のチェルシーモデル。

あ～メンズサイズだったら普通に履きたい。

モデルさん、大変似合っておりました。

ちなみにサイズ感は、普段24cm前後の方に丁度良いと思います。

是非。

00’s～ UNKNOWN Reversible Quilted Riders Jacket [Women’s M]

素晴らしいデザインのキルティングライダース。

異様なオーラを感じて手に取ってみたもののブランドの記載がありません。

RNで調べてみたらACNEだったのでそうなのかもしれませんが、詳細は分かりません。

ただそれを抜きにしても非常に良く出来た一品。

個人的にはパイピングバチバチのオリーブ面が好き。

間違いなくクールな服です。

50’s～ CRAN BARRY Indian Chenille Wappen Two Tone Sweater [38]

古めだけどこのポップな雰囲気。

この類のレタード系には感じられない、すっごい初めての感覚。

これは買って帰らねばならないと思いまして。

普通は、古いの着てるね～！ってなるじゃないですか。

だがこれはそうならない。

生地のゴワつきも全くありませんし。

綺麗目に着たらビンテージにすら見えないかもしれないです。

だからそう着るのが楽しいと思います。

00’s～ BRYN WALKER Giovanna Shirt Made In U.S.A. [NOS] [Women’s L]

超カッコイイの見つけました。

何とも形容し難いシェイプとデザイン。

と、柄。

ちょん切った様なクロップドシルエットに垂れ下がるドローコード。

広く高いネック。

知らないブランドでしたが私はインプットしました。

00’s～ DONNA KARAN Woven Plaid Maxi Sleeping Shirt [Women’s XL]

こちらはスリーピングウェアのマキシシャツ。

お、珍しいと思ったDONNA KARAN。

と言うのも、古着を探してたらDKNYはあってもDONNA KARANはあんまり見ないので。

シンプルだけどもツボを押さえたポケットとスリットのディテール。

こんなのパジャマにしとくには勿体無い。

格好良いです。

90’s SAINT JAMES Striped Neck Knit Sweater Black Made In France [About Women’s M]

当店では初めてのセン��ジェームス。

なぜなら自分がセントジェームス全般が似合わなさすぎて、全く興味を示さないためです。

でもこれは刺さりました。

ウィメンズだけど。

めちゃおすすめです。

00’s～ MARC JACOBS Flower Print Cropped Jacket [L]

この着用写真で着てもらった時、あぁ買ってきて良かったと思った服。

実は結構迷いましたから。笑

色んな所に妙な癖があって、果たしてコレは…、みたいな。

着たら多分良いだろうな、くらいの半丁博打。

ほんで着たらやっぱカッコイイじゃん！

さすがMARCじゃん！

て思いながら無言で写真を撮りました。

00’s～ GAP Cropped Denim Trucker Jacket Faded Red [Women’s L]

これもまた癖だけど、こっちは割と確証がありました。

これは何と言ってもポイントは袖ですね～。

ダンボの耳みたいにブリンブリン、ちょっとギャザー寄せるとこがニクい。

そしてボクシーなクロップドシルエット。

ユーズド加工の綺麗なフェードレッド。

非常に取り入れやすく、でもお洒落に見せられる服だと思います。

以上、今回の新着アイテムでした。

その他の詳細はONLINE STOREに記載しておりますので是非ご覧ください。

よろしくお願い致します。

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山梨県甲府市相生2-4-24 モナークアイオイ1F