An old Volkswagen camper van sat silently with its engine cover open on the side of a mountain road, looking tired and forlorn in its dust covered faded red paint. It's owner, an affable tall blonde carpenter named Roddy, sat on a nearby boulder, contemplating his next move. He was a long way from anywhere.
Hoping someone would drive by, he waited. And waited. But the road he was on was little used, and really didn't go anywhere anyone wanted to go. Roddy used it to get to a little known scenic overlook high up on the mountain where he spent the night once in a while when he felt like getting out of town and had nowhere better to go. There was only one residence up that way that he knew of, a big log-style mansion overlooking the city lights way off in the distance. It was many miles uphill, and a vacation residence, so walking all the way up there seemed foolish.
The daylight was fading, so Roddy made up a sign using a piece of a cardboard box, and wrote on it with black oil from old engine's dip-stick.
NEED HELP
PLEASE STOP
He left the engine cover open, tucked the sign into the bumper, and set up his bed for the night before settling down with a beer. After two more beers dusk had turned to darkness, and he climbed into bed and fell asleep, thinking he would get up early in the morning and hike down the mountain for help.
Out of a deep sleep he was startled awake by bright lights and a man's voice.
"Hello? Do you need help?"
"Yes," Roddy said out the window, "I'll be right out."
The voice belonged to a sleek looking grey haired man in his sixties, stepping out of a black Mercedes convertible. He was dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit, and looked like a million bucks.
"Thanks for stopping," Roddy said as he got out of the camper. "My engine broke down this afternoon. I thought I'd have to walk down tomorrow."
The man asked if Roddy would like to ride with him up to the big house, but Roddy declined and gave him a phone number to call in the morning of a friend who had a Volkswagen repair shop. Roddy wrote down the part he needed and said the friend would know what to do. The man told him his wife would be coming by in the morning, they shook hands, and Roddy went back to bed.
About an hour later there was more bright light, and another voice, this one female.
"Hey! You need help?"
"Oh... I, uh... hang on a minute," Roddy said groggily.
This voice belonged to a stunning young blonde with a thick and brassy New York City accent, wearing a little red cocktail dress that left little to the imagination. She stepped out of a yellow Maserati convertible and promptly twisted her ankle on the dirt shoulder of the road.
"Fuck these things," she snarled as she pulled off her stiletto healed shoes.
Roddy was wearing nothing but small boxer shorts when he stumbled groggily out of the camper, and he stepped on something excruciatingly sharp in his bare feet.
"Fuck!" he said quietly, lifting his left foot in his right hand to look at his heel, not realizing the cars bright headlights perfectly lit his big flacid penis for the woman to see.
"Ain't it a bitch?" the woman said, soaking in the sight of the well endowed young man and smiling a little. "You need help or somethin'?" she said, and Roddy could tell she had been drinking.
"No. Actually, a guy came by earlier, and he's gonna make a phone call for me in the morning. But thanks, I really appreciate you stopping. Guess I should have taken this sign down."
"Oh. Yeah, no problem," she said, looking at Roddy's muscular chest.
"He said you'd be coming by in the morning... are you his wife?" Roddy asked.
"Yeah, I'm his fuckin' wife," she said, suddenly angry. "The mornin' he said? God damn it, he's prob'ly got a tramp up there. Was there a little twenty year old bitch with him?"
