The Hitch-Hiker

“BOOM” exploded the engine of the car just in front of me and it was now careering across the road. A cloud of smoke distorted my view and its tail lights dissolved like a spent firework into the smoke, dust and darkness.
“What a time to blow your engine! Midnight!”
I pulled up sharply, snatching out my mobile to call emergency services, but slowly, It replaced itself gently back in my pocket as I watched in amazement the driver emerging with no apparent cuts and no harm done. His car had only stopped because it was rammed into a lamp post, and was being bombarded by a cluster of falling sparks and it was partially crushed underneath a big heavy pole.
“Hey pal,” he said in a low, gruff voice, “Got room for one extra?”
He sat on the passenger side and it was just me and him.
He’d got one of them volcano-type voices rumbling and rustling like leaves at the back of his throat. He wasn’t a very large man, quite thin too. It seemed like a miracle he’d survived that crash. I took a closer look at him through my mirror. This man – this creature (looked more like an it than a he. The beard, the scar on his forehead, the long lank hair), and had a stain of thick blood on his clothes. So how come he seemed perfectly alright. He looked like the type to get enraged as fast as a bull, so I kept my mouth shut about the blood. I looked at the wreckage before we drove off. I could see shattered glass, shredded tyres, a smoking engine, and, what was that? Another body in the car? Blood smeared on his or her head?
“Are you gonna go or what? I got some other business to get to”
I asked him what his name was and what he did.
“My name?” he repeated, as if he wasn’t expecting that question, “My name’s Nosnam.”
An odd, very unusual name.
“And my business?... I’m on a business trip... meeting some... people across the country,” he explained, pausing and hesitating.
“You here alone?” I asked in a more forceful voice, still with that image of the body engraved in my skull.
“No.”
After a couple of minutes, I glanced in my mirror and my eye caught the strangest thing. His nametag. The mirror image of it, said Manson! The reverse of Nosnam is Manson. I’ve heard of a Manson name before... No, impossible! It can’t be. The wanted man on the poster? But what if? The very thought of having an insane killer in my car made me twitch and sweat scarring acid none stop. I kept my eyes glued to all my mirrors, watching him more than the road to make sure he didn’t do anything suspicious. My car shook and wobbled because my steering wheel was hard to grip with sweaty palms. I knew it was true...Charles Manson...the Tate/LaBianca killer, because it was too terrifying not to be.
“Stop right here” he said, after a long, deep, never ending silence.
He jumped out the car. He stretched his bones, smiling gleefully and said thanks, and left. Now he was going to come back and force me out and walk with him. But no, he went, he did. Just like that. I couldn’t believe it! He didn’t do anything. No threats, nothing. I cried tears of joy and felt the floor of the car as I slammed my foot on the pedals.
Thank God! I would see my kids again! The gleam on my face and the tear-stained cheeks were enough. The power of happiness consumed me. If I’d started seeing pink elephants it wouldn’t have mattered. The looney is gone! Or am I wrong? No way. But wait. What if?
Impossible! I parked the car and got out for some fresh air and to think it over. I retraced my thoughts from when I met him. The engine burst: could “Nosnam” have rigged the engine maybe? Something in his pockets that could trigger the bomb? A tiny bomb, just enough power to take out the engine and only the engine? The rate of my heart sped faster as I went over the options. And the body with blood? Could Manson have been a hitch hiker for that car as well? He could have set off the explosive, and then made his move on the driver. But then how did he come out unharmed when I picked him up?
I thought back, went over it again. The engine, it was a cheap car, easy to tell. But the blood? He must be a killer! But wait, could it have been ketchup? He could have been eating while driving, then took the ketchup and squeezed too hard, getting it on his clothes, thus startling himself and accidentally pushing the pedal, giving the car too much juice. Maybe? But the body! Unless the lamp post he crashed into, could that be the cause of the ‘body’ the airbag?
I’m now sitting back in my car. The image of the eyes in the mirror look manically back at me. Am I, am I the real madman, the real looney?