Sacrifice, USA

The names of cities follow certain patterns. With the right amount of information, you can know what a city will be named without ever hearing the name itself. Now, by all rights, this city here would traditionally be known as Thelma, Nebraska. However, Lincoln is famous for only one thing. It has a small volcano. It wouldn't even be famous for this, because this volcano is really just a hot pit of mud which lies beneath the river running through Lincoln. But once a year, every year, someone manages to drive a car off a bridge covered in gargoyles, directly into that hot pit of mud. And that is why we call this city 'Sacrifice, U.S.A.'

Which leads us to me. This year is my turn, which at least helps to explain why I’m speeding down an empty stretch of Interstate 62, straddling just enough of the line to beat out a steady rhythm between my tires and the reflectors. The radio doesn’t work very well all the way out here, so that’s the only music I’m going to get. Sure, I could have hooked my phone up to the stereo, but I have the honor of driving a 1973 Chevrolet Caprice convertible. Even the Organization failed to get it in cherry red, but the brown color really works with the lack of scenery. In the passenger seat is my lovely passenger, a whole pig, already dead, so the conversation has been a bit lacking. He’s been done up to look like Johnny Depp in Fear and Loathing. Something about the Organization wanting to test The Pit’s cultural awareness? Way above my paygrade, I’m basically just a glorified delivery driver.

Testing for cultural awareness might seem strange, to an outside observer, but we do have some evidence that The Pit, as this site has come to be known by those in the know, has some level of intelligence. Hell, it took entirely too many cars in the early days before we figured out that The Pit had three requirements to sate it for another year. 1) A car. We think it might have been fine with just a human sacrifice once upon a time, but then it got a taste of a horse and buggy, then a car, and now its picky. Won’t eat any vehicles newer than 1980. Or rather, it’ll eat them, then promptly conspire to make some poor schmuck crash off the bridge in their vintage car. You’d think this deserted stretch of road wouldn’t see much vintage car traffic, but it’s always something. Car show, dead relative, GPS glitch. Anyway, I’ve gotten sidetracked. Easy to do out here, road hypnosis and all that. Point is, 2) Some meat. The Pit may be pretty picky about vehicles, but we got lucky here. You know that whole “Human flesh tastes like pork!” thing? Yeah, The Pit’s discerning palate certainly seems to think so. And thus my porcine companion. And finally, 3) Dessert. This was what took the longest for the Organization to figure out. If you don’t include something sweet to take the edge off, The Pit gets peckish and will promptly summon another poor, innocent driver in less than six months. That more than doubles the rate we lose classic cars, which is a major bummer. Plus, the organization cares about the loss of human life or something. It’s all in the briefing packet, currently weighed down by a certain porky posterior. For dessert I had stopped a few towns back at a small diner, grabbed two slices of chocolate cake and hit the road. One for The Pit, one for me. Cake was a bit dry, but it’s going in a river, so I kind of doubt The Pit will really be able to tell a difference.

Finally, the bridge peaks into view, the gargoyles leaping out of the haze of hot air over the pavement. The bizarre, gothic architecture couldn’t be more out of place among the corn stalks, unless you know about The Pit. I pull over, getting the car aimed nice and centered down the bridge. Classic stuff, belt around the steering wheel to keep the car straight, rock on the accelerator. One way ticket. I give the pig a solemn salute as the car begins to pick up speed. I’d never have told him, but he needed a shower. A day’s drive in the hot sun would do that to anybody, living or dead. For now though, he’s a hero. Turning, I begin the slow trudge back down the highway. On to the next assignment, something about delivering a pineapple pizza to a fraternity house in Athens, Georgia, lest a plague of bulldogs befall the world. One last glance over my shoulder shows the convertible now roaring down the center of the bridge. Then past the last set of gargoyles. I stop, mouth hanging open. The convertible is now passing into the center of town, totally unmanned. Very much, however, bepigged. This is not supposed to happen, the car goes in The Pit, end of question. Wait twelve months, rinse, repeat. I pull out my cell phone. No signal, which really shouldn’t be a surprise. Guess I’ll have to wait to let them know that The Pit isn’t a fan of Dr. Gonzo. Media aware and media picky. Suddenly, a tire on the convertible blows, the car pulls a hard 180 degree turn and vaults, glorious out over the river. Perhaps next year they’ll do a Dukes of Hazzard theme.