Truck Kun Is That You?!?

“What kind of abysmal luck is this? The 7:30 a.m. train, the one train in the entire system that never gets delayed, decides to be late on the day I desperately needed it to run on time,” Suzuki muttered, sighing a dramatic, defeated cloud into the sterile office air.

“Guess my boss will chew me out again,” he thought. “I just wish I could vanish right here, right now.” He took the lift up to the third floor. The doors hissed open, and Suzuki pasted a shaky smile onto his face. 

“Good Morning, everyone!” he chirped, offering a forced wave to the rows of cubicles. A few people visibly giggled at him, while others just stared with pity.

Suddenly, a massive, muscular figure loomed up behind him.

***

Suzuki found himself standing outside of Meathead Motors. His eyes were instantly streaming with salty water. Yes, you guessed it—those were his tears.

“Seven years,” he whispered, wiping the moisture away with the cuff of his threadbare suit. “I busted my backside daily, pulling overtime for this showroom, and that monster didn't even hesitate to fire me for being late... again. How many times was it this month? Two, right?!”

He started walking blindly toward the street. The anger slowly dissolved into crushingly familiar dread.

“Seven years continuous dedication to this black corporation’s rotten job. Three hours of sleep a night. Never got a girlfriend. Postponed my hobbies straight to oblivion, and even after all that suffering, I get fired. Now what? How do I pay the bills? The rent is high! My savings are pathetic!”

He stumbled onto the raised edge of the pavement that bordered the street, muttering to himself, his voice laced with resignation and grief. “I wish those Truck Kun stories were real. Honestly, death is probably better than this.”

A massive shadow fell over him, accompanied by the loud, roaring sound of an engine that sounded suspiciously like a god clearing its throat. Suzuki didn't look up; his wish for vanishing was about to be granted by the most cliché method possible.

A screech of tires—tires that somehow sounded both expensive and aggressive—filled the air. Before his brain could even register the word truck, a blunt, unforgiving force slammed into the side of his stomach, instantly breaking his bones and crushing his lower body. 

He felt the crushing impact of a mid-size pickup truck, a vehicle with a surprisingly sturdy-feeling front grille. He flew backward, tumbling across the asphalt, his misery now punctuated by blinding, agonizing pain.

—What can be worse than this— his vision blurred, the rusty, iron-like taste of blood filling his mouth. He lay on the road, watching his life flow into a crimson pool beneath him.

—Got fired, and then gotten hit by a pickup truck.—

“I can’t die like thi…” he confusedly mumbled in a weak, wavering tone, before the light went out.

***

"Good morning, Suzuki. Your reincarnation package has been successfully delivered. Please rate your driver's performance on a scale of one to ten."