[b]NEAR PERRY, FLORIDA 
MARCH 21ST 21:44 PM[/b]

It had been seven hours on the Greyhound bus and Greg Saunders, sitting in the back, had finished his sandwiches, his Cokes and his magazines. He’d also smoked most of his cigarettes during the two hour layover in Tampa. He was bored, in short, but he didn’t want to fall asleep. He hated sleeping in buses, or any other kind of transportation really. Greg preferred to be alert.

He rubbed his face, sighing.

“Come on, [i]mamacita[/i], I know a good place in Tallahassee. Real nice beds. We can get to know each other a little.”
“No, thank you.”

A man and a woman, a few rows to the front of the bus.

“Ah, come on. What’d you gonna do, huh? Wait around for the bus?”
“Yes.”
“But that’s no fun. C’mon,” he said as he pawed at her from across the aisle.
“Stop it.”

Greg’s ears perked up and he sat forward to observe the scene.

“C’mon! You’re pretty, you know that?”
She was. Greg guessed she was early thirties, Hispanic. She wasn’t a knockout, but she was pretty.
“They got a great thing for kids, too,” the man looked to the woman’s son. Eight years old, sleeping with his head in his mother’s lap. “He has some fun, we have some fun, huh?”
Her face wrinkled in disgust. But the man didn’t give up. He ran his hand through his slicked up, greasy hair and gave her a smile that was supposed to be charming. It didn’t work.
“Hey, I said, c’mon.” He grabbed her arm.
“Stop it.” Her son was beginning to wake up.
“We’ll just have a little fun, that’s all.” He pulled on her arm, trying to force her into a kiss. She resisted. “Just a little party, just the two of us. Or he can watch, if you want.”
He kept tugging her arm. “Is that what you want, huh? Dirty little girl.”
“Stop it.”

With his other hand, he reached in his pocket and took out a knife, holding it close to his face. It glinted in the dark. “Listen, bitch.” 
She tried to pull her arm away. The other passengers were asleep – or pretended to be.
“Do you want me to cut you? Or are we gonna have a little party?”

“You can party with me.” Greg Saunders took the punk’s head and smashed it into the seat in front of him. The knife fell to the floor. The other passengers, ‘suddenly’ awake, gasped. The driver wondered whether he should stop the bus.
“Listen, kid,” Greg said. The man’s arms flailed about in defense, but Greg grabbed one and snapped it to the man’s back.
“Imma cut you, you fucking grandpa bitch.”
“Anyone want to grab the knife?” Greg looked to the passengers. One followed instructions.
“Good. Now, listen, kid. I can either put you face first through the window, or the driver is going to stop the bus and you can leave nicely.” He twisted the man’s face to look at the woman. “After apologising of course.”
“Fuck you, bitch.”
Greg slammed the punk’s head into the seat again. “I’m sorry?”
“I said fuck you, you wrinkled ass cunt.”
“Now, that’s not a very nice word.” The head went against the seat again. “Want to try again? I can go all night.”
The man struggled against the hold, but it was useless.
“Alright.”
“What’s that?”
“Alright. Sorry.”
“Good, driver?”

The driver took the bus out to the outer lane and then stopped.

“You ready?” Greg relaxed his hold. The punk nodded. “Let’s go.”
He dragged the man through the aisle, letting him go just before they reached the door. Free, the man’s first act was to turn and try to sock Greg. But the old cowboy knew that was coming. He caught the punch, threw it to the side and then kicked the thug straight in the stomach. He fell ass backwards onto the highway.

“Nice try, kid.”

The door closed, the passengers erupted in cheers. The bus drove away.

Greg Saunders smiled, nodded, accepted a few of the handshakes and walked back to his seat at the rear.

Tipping the hat over his face, he closed his eyes.

Now he could sleep.