I always enjoyed stories by pigwiz, and her famous (to a few of us) unfinished fic Red Picket Fence. I messaged pigwiz in May of 2020. I didn't receive a reply until January of 2021. My question was if she was going to finish the fic. She said no, she wasn't. We communicated sporadically throughout the Winter about the story until I worked up enough nerve to ask if she minded if I finished it. To my surprise, she said she didn't mind at all, and sent copies of her notes and a flowchart of the fic. The ending she had planned was pretty much a surprise to me. I asked if she minded if I changed the ending if I finished the story. I thought I'd lost her there. She didn't reply for about a month, but in her next reply she agreed to whatever I wanted to do with the story. So, based on her notes and flowchart, with changes where I felt them necessary, I'm going to try to wrap this up. I thought about it on and off for a bit, then decided to do it. To make sense of the story, I'm reposting her original chapters with no changes. My take on her fic start at chapter 18. Beth (pigwiz) hasn't replied to my messages since May of '21, so whatever I come up with, hopefully, will have her blessing. So, without further explanations, enjoy the great unfinished pigwiz fic of 'A Red Picket Fence' and my humble attempts to finish it.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

A Red Picket Fence

"They still have my Lincoln?" Fred asked.

"Still in the driveway as of two days ago." Gibby replied.

Fred nodded, and held out his hand. Gibby took it, and they shook.

Chapter 11

Fred Stopped at the back entrance of the truck stop... Yeah, he was done here.

It'd only taken him a few moments to pull on a pair of pants, socks and another shirt. It had taken him a bit longer to

find his shoes - a ratty looking pair of Nike Air's. The shoes had started life as white, now they were torn, stained

nearly brown, and smelled.

They reminded him of himself - at the moment, anyway.

He turned to see Gibby looking at the trucks tires. He'd only walked a hundred yards or so away from the truck, and

he was already having some remorse. He really didn't understand why. That truck - it just was not him. It had worked

though, it had done what it was meant to do, what he had needed it to do... He had fallen off the face of the earth, and

now he was going to return, on his terms.

He walked into the truck stop and was once again assailed by the noise and smell. Diesel fumes, greasy fried food,

and unwashed bodies were the normal here. Video game racket and loud men. That's what made up life at this - and

every other truck stop. He'd been at eight just like this in five midwest and southwest States over the last ten months.

He knew...

He made his way through the building, mostly navigating by the incremental increase in humidity and smell. Arriving

at the chipped paint and grime covered swinging doors, he pushed his way into the locker / shower area. He reached

into his pocket and pulled out the key for locker number 147A. Opening it, he retrieved his duffle bag and pulled out a

pair of pants, a button down shirt, socks, boxers and a bag of toiletries. He then removed a shoe box, and the nestled

- in - paper, new Air Nike's.

Closing and locking the locker, he made his way to the shower room doors. He could choose the group showers for

two bucks, or a private stall for six. He slid six dollar bills into the machine, and was rewarded with a small slip of

paper with a code, a stall number and a warning that he had thirty minutes of privacy before the door popped open

and the water shut off. He stripped off his clothes, and tossed them into a far corner of the shower stall.

Twenty eight minutes later Fred was much cleaner, and somewhat refreshed. He was dressed in his new - purchased

not a week ago - blue denim Levi's, a red and blue plaid western cut shirt and the Nike's. The shirt wasn't 'him', but

was all he could find at this truck stop.

And he really didn't give a damn.

He tossed his old clothes into the nearest garbage can while making his way back to his locker. Taking what was left

in the locker, he stuffed it into his bag. Zipping up his duffle bag, he meandered through the brash, brightly colored,

attention grabbing sticky floored sin - circus; a constant at these truck stops, and out the automatic sliding front doors.

The place stank. It seemed the stench was concentrated here at the front of the buildings making up the 'Flying J

Mega Truck Stop'.

The green Cadillac was easy to find as it stood out among the trucks. It seemed as out of place as a virtuous woman

would here. He pressed the keypad button. The doors clicked softly as they unlocked while the lights blinked twice.

He'd planned the route weeks ago. North on '95 to Las Vegas. Switch to '15, then '93. Change to '318 just over the

Nevada border and continue north. Then back to the '93 / '6 and on into Twin Falls. That should take about ten or

eleven hours. There, he would stop, get a motel and some sleep. The next few days would be spent in a bit of

planning and resting. Then the nine or ten hours driving on Highway 84 into Seattle. He hadn't decided yet just what

he would do at that point. His ideas ran from walking in the front door of his house and announcing 'Honeys, I'm

home' to burning the place down with the three bitches locked inside.

He stared at the ignition switch for a moment. Pressing that button and starting the engine was it. This life ends, his

new begins. He backed out of the parking space smiling, and made his way out onto the freeway... The dusk

wrapping him in it's arms as if greeting an old friend.

The house near Magnolia Village hadn't been a home for some time - the three remaining inhabitants blaming each

other for their current living situation. They had painted an odd picture postcard life... Only to watch it evolve into

bickering, deceit and shared loneliness as their picture postcard smoldered and burned. Each woman was sure it was

the other two that had led them all to this dark, dank subterranean mindset, none of them realizing that they were all

denizens of the bottomless hell hole to begin with. The first two and a half months had been amazing. Random group

and individual sex that was seemingly initiated with a wink, or a smile... Or at the drop of a pair of panties. Everything

quite impulsive and satisfying. Until the day came when they began to compare notes - each claiming Freddie loved

them the most. At first it was just idle talk on the porch, or while watching television. Soon it evolved into keeping

track, and then recriminations, finally retaliation. Lovemaking and tender expressions had turned to bitch-fucking

Freddie. Group sex had stopped completely. Angry accusations and tears - initially hidden from Freddie, had turned

into verbal and physical explosions that could not be hidden. Resentment ruled and acrimony reigned as the

quadrangle shifted and strained.

They had managed to keep the place together. Sam had done wonders with the yard and gardens while her sister

and Carly had kept house. For all intents, the house seemed perfect - from the outside. Inside it was quiet. No joy, no

laughter... No love.

Two and a half packs of Pall Mall 'lung-rockets' later, he pulled into a Super Eight on the '84 just north of Twin Falls.

Fred was tired as he tossed the car keys on the round, wobbly, Formica table. He dropped his duffle bag on the bed,

stripped off his clothes and showered. Reclining in the nude on top of the bed, he unzipped the duffle bag and

removed another pack of cigarettes and the bottle of Kessler's bourbon Gib had given him early yesterday evening.

The back of the door had a wood grained hunk of plastic emblazoned with the words; 'NO SMOKING' stuck to it. Fred

chuckled as he lit up, inhaled and took a drink from the bottle. He lay there for a few minutes, smoking and drinking,

contemplating nothing, until the cigarette began to burn his fingers. He tossed the still lit butt into the bathroom and

swiped the ashes off the ugly, slightly tattered, overly starched multi color patterned bed spread.

Glancing over at the chipped - imitation wood grain - bedside table holding up the inevitable plastic clock radio he

noticed the time in glowing green digits: 6:08 AM. He'd need to stay here a day or two and switch back to 'days'. His

former short lived career of being a truck stop pimp had required him to be up all night. His upcoming meeting with his

former lovers meant he must reverse that.

He screwed the top back onto the bottle, set the alarm on the yellow plastic clock radio to noon, and slept.

He awoke to a knocking on the door accompanied by a heavily accented 'hooskeping'. Checking the clock, it was

11:40... Close enough. He called back through the door that he was fine and heard the trundle of the cart as it moved

away.

He was still tired, but hungry as well. He picked up the bottle lying next to him, unscrewed the cap, then screwed it

back on tight. He needed to get up and get a few things... More clothing and some needed supplies being the next

step in his transformation from Buck back to Fred.

To finish waking himself, he took a quick shower, and dressed in yesterdays clothes - his only clothes so far.

Rummaging through his duffle bag produced the packet Gib had given him. He unclasped the old fashioned manila

envelope and emptied the contents onto the table top. He glanced through the nine pages of paper - as Gibby had

said, he'd been right about everything. Along with the papers was one of the newer memory sticks. He owned no

technology - not even a phone. He'd need to acquire enough to be able to access the mem-stick at the least. He

returned to his duffle bag and removed another smaller bag. He had a couple hundred in his wallet, but not enough

for what he was going to be buying today.

Since teaming up with Sugar Tits and Trixee ten months back, a few days after his escape from Seattle, he'd found

that sex does indeed pay, and pay well - even at the lowest rung of the ladder. He'd met them as they were plying

their trade at a truck stop in Billings, Montana. Some trucker had used them both, then literally tossed them out of the

sleeper cab of his truck without paying them. Fred had witnessed the trucker push them both onto the pavement, kick

Sugar, and laugh. Fred remembered calmly walking up to the fellow, grabbing him by the back of his shirt and

slamming him into the side of his truck - knocking the bastard out. Sugar, Trixee and Fred had then emptied his

pockets, which netted them a little over two thousand dollars. A plan was quickly made, a partnership initiated, and

after driving about a hundred miles away, later consummated in the camper of Fred's old, beat up truck. The gals said

he was the best pimp ever, since he didn't beat them, was fair in the cash split, and indeed kept the idiots at bay. He

also kept the gals busy. Fucking was their trade, and he made sure they were fucking for cash at every opportunity.

The gals had pulled in nearly a hundred thousand dollars in the last ten months since he had met them. He pulled a

couple thousand out of the small bag, and put it in his wallet. He grabbed his duffle, and left the room. Finding the

housekeeping maid, he tipped her a twenty and asked her to go back to his room when she had time. Since tipping

maids at Super Eight motels is a rarity, she enthusiastically agreed. He stopped by the motel office and paid for

another night, and went about his business in the city of Twin Falls, Idaho.

After three days of refreshing sleep, a new-ish compuphone with a roll up monitor and keyboard, decent food, new

clothes and no booze or cigarettes, he was ready. He'd spent the last day and a half pouring over the paper

documents and electronic media Gibby had provided. He knew exactly what and how he would handle 'Seattle'. Now

he was about nine or ten hours away from initiating his plans. Fred was actually a bit nervous... The whole thing could

blow up in his face... But he doubted it would.

There was only one way to find out. He pushed the ignition button, and began to head north west on '84. Three

highways and ten hours would put him where he needed to be... For now.

XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX

Yes, I did say there was only one more chapter.

I was wrong.

YIKES!

(Don't tell my husband, he thinks I'm always right! At least that's what I tell him...)