Interim

The little blue Mercedes convertible streaked along the interstate at supra-legal speed; it was ok, of course, because in states like Nebraska the freeway speed limit is considered a polite suggestion that is very often ignored.

At 90 mph, Terra found that the wind whipped her long, jet black hair in a manner that was more aggressive than playful. She slowed to 85, and the tugging at her scalp eased to a comfortable pull.

Terra kicked herself for having manipulated her own thoughts so that she felt that she needed to go on location. Her official reason was to research and observe the production in order to aid in designing the computer graphics. In reality, she knew she was there to observe a certain actor. However, the glamour of the idea of dating the Hollywood Heartthrob was rapidly fading with the harsh realization that he has approximately the personality and individuality of the cornstalks she flew by.

"Middle-of-America men are Middle-of-America men, no matter what their profession," she reaffirmed her staunch belief, if for no other reason than internal comfort.

It wasn't that she didn't like the Midwest, in particular; she just found that more often that not she was simply out of place with the down-homey, wholesome nature that the grain belt presented. Her embargo on Midwestern men and the middle of America in general was just another in a bevy of complex rules that made travel and mate selection easier. The rules she developed, despite external arguments otherwise, weren't designed to offend or segregate any more than the rules of any other game, like Monopoly. It's just how things were

Nebraska was easily Terra's least favorite state to travel through. The monotony of the corn and dingy service stations made her tired and obscenely bored. The radio stations had a predilection for playing grainy vinyl Conrad Twitty and Tammy Wynette records, which forced her to retreat to the comfortable modern selection of her CD player.

At 3000 revolutions per minute, the engine generated an internal oil pressure of 80 pounds per square inch; quite a considerable force. When the oil filter gasket failed at around mile marker 274, oil blasted out from under the car at a prodigious rate, draining the oil pan of the car within no more than a minute. A massive self destruction process was underway.

The oil light flickered on the dashboard for a minute, then glowed solidly indicating the carnage that was taking place. Terra failed to notice the light altogether, and even if she had, it probably wouldn't have made much difference. Inside the engine, things were heating up rapidly; metal rubbed against metal, grinding the precision engineered Mercedes internals into particularly expensive metal filings. The car surged. Terra took notice at this ill behavior, and stomped her foot on the gas. Instantly, a piston failed, welding itself to the side of the engine. The connecting rod the piston was attached to snapped, flailed around wildly for several microseconds and violently punched a hole in the engine block.

The huge racket coming from under hood was underscored now by billowing clouds of acrid smoke, both of which indicated to Terra that something had gone, in fact, quite amiss. She braked gently and guided the ailing convertible to the side of the road. As she hit the brake, the mortally wounded motor knocked several times, backfired, and went silent forever.

The sun beat down from the cloudless blue sky on Terra with great fervor, causing her to break a sweat that trickled down her forehead and dripped off the end of her wingtip sunglasses. She kicked the car squarely on the left front fender with a mid level side kick. The car rocked slightly under the force of the blow, then sat there. She was going to have to do something about this, now.

Leroy followed the trail with bemused interest. Nebraska was an interesting state to him often because it was so completely uninteresting to the rest of humanity. Devoid of features that demanded attention like massive mountains and cities and famous sights, it left an individual with the proper powers of observation to see more of the little things in life than they could ever hope to see anywhere else.

Today, the highway interested Leroy. As he drove down the interstate, he trail of fresh oil caught his attention. It had started as a slight drip, he conjectured, then built into a torrential spray and then stopped altogether. "Ran dry," he said quietly, almost reverently to himself. There was going to be something very interesting ahead in the form of a dead car.

After the streak of oil had ceased, there was a dead period where there was no trail to follow that lasted all of about two miles. Then, his trained sense of smell picked up the burning smell of melted metal and overheated coolant. The smell turned into a contrail of smoke, which lead to a new Mercedes convertible with a very seized engine.

Terra saw the abused looking Chevy work truck slowing as it approached, and she prayed quietly to herself that it wasn't some sort of rapist.

There was a girl standing by the car; a strikingly pretty girl. She looked exceptionally familiar. Leroy maneuvered the pickup deftly in front of the stricken Mercedes, shifted to neutral and stamped the emergency brake. The rear wheels locked on the loose shoulder, raising a low, chalky dust cloud.

The door creaked open and a man stepped out. A bearded man with wild hair and glasses.