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The Old Organ Trail - A Short Story
The Old Organ Trail - A Short Story
The Old Organ Trail - A Short Story
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The Old Organ Trail - A Short Story

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Pewtie Marshall’s days of tearing up the blue highways in his hot-rod with an Igloo full of black market organs are long behind him—or so he thinks. When Angelo “The Eliminator” Angelini calls upon Pewtie to make one last run, he knows it’s not an offer he can refuse.

Now Pewtie and his sorry-looking dog, Dave, need to gas the old hotrod and burn up the roads to the Oregon border. Between here and there, they're going to need to be invisible to CHiPSat, the murderous traffic-control satellite, and keep a weather eye in the rearview for any sign of Jimmy-Bob “Roadkill” LaRue and the Skullbusters M.C.

“The Old Organ Trail” was originally published in Writers of The Future, Volume 2, edited by Algis Budrys, in 1986. This edition includes the author's afterword, “Finding The Old Organ Trail.”

LanguageEnglish
Release dateJan 25, 2015
ISBN9781507028674
The Old Organ Trail - A Short Story

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    The Old Organ Trail - A Short Story - Bridget McKenna

    The Old Organ Trail is copyright © 1986, 2014 Bridget McKenna, all rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form without prior permission of the publisher, with the exception of brief passages quoted in reviews.

    The Old Organ Trail was originally published in Writers of the Future Volume 2 (Bridge, 1986), edited by Algis Budrys.

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    Contents

    The Old Organ Trail

    Dear Reader

    A Free e-Book for You

    Finding The Old Organ Trail

    About the Author and Editor

    More by Bridget McKenna

    Copyright Page

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    The Old Organ Trail

    MY UNCLE PEWTIE was the king of the liverleggers back in the days of the gaseaters, when it took balls and brains to drive a car (as Pewtie tells it), and the ’leggers in their firebreathing, gaseating hot rods would tear up the blue highways between pickup points and delivery drops, waxing Smokey’s ass with their souped-up Camaros and Zeecars with their Igloos full of livers and hearts and whatnot tucked snug between the front and back seats.

    Camaros and Zeecars, in case you haven’t been to a museum lately, were those steel dinosaurs on balloons like you see pictures of on greeting cards, and Smokeys were people who used to drive around looking for other people who went too fast (you could do that back then) and make them pull off the side of the road (you could do that, too) and make them pay money to the state.

    ’Leggers were folks who found organs other folks weren’t using—no questions asked—and ran them to places where doctors put them in folks who had worn theirs out. Pretty primitive, but that’s the way they used to do it when my uncle Pewtie was a boy.

    Pewtie started ’legging when he was seventeen or eighteen and there were still highways a man could drive. He had a souped-up Dodge Dart he’d inherited from his daddy, who used to drive dope up from Baja to the Bay. His daddy had high hopes of a regular

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