Chapter 1: The Word of the Day is ROAD KILL

The remains of an animal that has been killed on a road by a motor vehicle.

One that falls victim to intense competition.

So, what do you do when you see a large white rabbit hitching a ride at the side of the road?

There she was, as big as a Great Dane, I swear, sitting on the shoulder of the Glenstone Avenue exit ramp off a highway called the James River Freeway, with one ear bent and pointing up the ramp to the city street, sort of like that Playboy logo. You know, the bunny with one ear tipped forward? Anyway, my Gran taught me manners and to follow the Golden Rule, so I did the only thing I could do. I offered her a ride.

Stick with me here. I know just what you're thinking...how in the world did I know that this bunny was a "she"?

In backwater Louisiana, where I come from, most guys aren't smart enough to know when it's time to run away from a fight...only the girls (and maybe a few gay guys) have the good sense it takes to cut and run for it. And this one was running like one seriously large scared rabbit. Okay, okay. Technically, she wasn't exactly hopping or running; she was just standing there, thumbing it with that bent ear, but I know what it's like to be scared, so I knew how she felt even before I picked up on the panic that was just pouring off of her. And WOW, this girl was the best bunny broadcaster I had ever run across.

I pulled over onto the shoulder, rolled down the window and waved her over, and she was already coming through loud and clear as she hopped right into the back seat of my Malibu. Then I reached over the seat to give her a little pat and let her know that I understand (a little reassurance never hurts and just seemed the friendly thing to do), and as soon my hand came in contact with her fur, I could SEE it all real clear, too. A real big...make that real huge... rat was screaming away at her, coming after her waving a knife. I jerked my hand back real quick. I mean, who knew that a rat could scream such filthy stuff? Now I don't mean to say that a rat-fink guy was chasing her. Little Miss Big Bunny was giving off a vibe picture of a real humongous real rodent with some real mean looking teeth and brandishing (another calendar word, from one day last May, I think) a real wicked-looking knife.

And, as if she didn't have enough going on...someone...something? else was hot on her heels, too.

Now, don't laugh, 'cause I'm just telling you what she showed me when I got up enough nerve to touch her again. I was seeing it the same way she did in her head: some prick on a Harley bearing down on her, about to run her over. One gigantic prick, an honest-to-gosh penis, for crap's sake, and a really big one, at that. I'm telling you, it was even bigger than a vampire's, and, believe me, the two I've gone eye-to-eye with have been pretty darned big, even unnaturally large, you could say. But what would I know? I've met plenty of pricks in my life...they're an occupational hazard for a barmaid like me...but it's not like I've gotten many up-close and personal-like looks at the baggage these guys are carrying. The only guys I've slept with have been supes, and, honey, what you've heard is right. They really have got some pretty suped-up equipment. Oh, when I think of all the ways I've been super-sized...I expect I'll find that all those itty-bitty li'l ìfun mealsî most of us settle for as we drive through McLife won't really be all that much ìfunî after a steady diet of Big Macs. Kinda, you know, like settling for True Blood when all you've ever known is the real thing.

It's not like I need any more trouble in my life. My bunny friend isn't the only one with a rat and a prick on her tail right now, and I'm doing my all-out best to put as much space as I can between them and me just as quick as I can so I don't have to watch those two thrash it out with each other. Maybe my vamps have spent too much time in Louisiana, 'cause they just don't seem smart enough to back away from what's been brewing between them. They were flashing fang and going at it real dead-serious-like, so I decided it was time for me to slip out of Bon Temps and head for the hills.

Don't get me wrong. It's not that I don't love one or the other of them. I do. Love them, I mean. Both. And that's part of the problem.

I've read the psychology books from the Bon Temps library...both of them...so I know why I'm being kind of flip about something this deadly serious. It's what I need to do to take my mind off of something that's just too painful for me to handle. We've talked about this before, so you already know it's because I just can't bear to watch either one of them do away with the other. Very soon, if not already, there will be nothing...nothing...left for me there, except you maybe, and I'm just not feeling all that strong. So here I am in ÖuhÖlet me check the map...Springfield, in Missouri of all places, looking to go someplace as normal as possible, where I can take some time to heal the kind of hurt that even vamp blood can't touch.

Uh-huh. So that must be why I'm sitting here in my car on the side of a highway exit ramp hundreds of miles from home with a seriously large white rabbit broadcasting from the back seat (Lord, I hope that's all she's doing there. My upholstery...). And in my rear view mirror, I've got a real clear view of this huge armed and dangerous jail-tat rat and what's got to be a six-foot at least prick both speeding up the ramp behind us on a souped-up Harley.

What. A. Joke.

Gran, forgive me for using the J-word, but jeeeezischristalmighty, what in the holy HECK is going on here? I didn't think it was possible, but either someone put something in the water I drank when I had lunch in Branson , or the Ozarks is lookin' way crazier than Bon Temps and Shreveport put together.