Chuck America 18-wheeler tractor trailer

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The man in the back of the police car was about to open fire when Chuck's semi cab came screaming up from behind, flattening the car, and then rolled on ahead without even changing course.

"No, no! Wrong terrorists!" Chuck screamed at his truck.

It didn't look like it heard him, what with being a truck and all.

It kept pace with him as he came up behind the last van, which was swerving back and forth between lanes, seemingly trying to decide which was a bigger threat, Chuck or his semi. It apparently decided that both where fucking terrifying and stayed in the middle of the two-lane highway.

At that moment a fully grown bald eagle flew out of Chuck's truck and ripped the man's eyes out of their sockets.Chuck pulled out another case of Jack and set it on the gas pedal of the van as well, and decided, If it worked once before…

He awkwardly shuffled out of the window and onto the small hood of the van, now only a few feet away from his dastardly quarry. He made a running (patriotic) leap, limbs flailing wildly as he cascaded through the air. And then he smacked dead into the side of the van.

He almost fell to the ground, where he would have been crushed under the wheel of his Truck of Flaming Patriotism (But Not Flaming in a Gay Way), but one hand managed to grab onto one of the skids on top of the terror van of terror.

Using his free hand he polished off another bottle of Jack, then he used his newfound strength to hoist himself on top of the van. Looking behind him he could see over two dozen police cars and vans in hot pursuit. But none of them could get close enough to him—his truck, and the other van (both being driven by cases of alcohol) were blocking their way.

Chuck fumbled around as he struggled to keep his balance, refusing to crouch down because as a patriot he had to stand tall at all times. He unfurled one of the American flags he kept in his pocket and waved it valiantly above his head.

"In the name of God, America, and Fox News! I claim this van as—"

"Who the hell are you?!"

"I claim— what now?"

Chuck was no longer alone on the roof. A man had taken (stolen) Chuck's idea and climbed out of the window and onto the roof. He crouched down to maintain balance on a fast moving vehicle. He must be a communist terrorist! A Commuterrorist! Chuck folded the flag back up, he might need it later.

Funny…it looked like his insignia was for the American Army…and his name tag (Sgt. Russell, by the way) was spelled in American letters, not foreign, evil letters. That disguise is incredible!

"Who the hell are you? Why are you attacking all of my men?" the harbinger of terror demanded to know.

"I am Chuck. And fuck you, that's why. YOU OSAMA BASTARD!" Chuck screamed over the rushing wind.

"That's a name! Not an adjective! That doesn't even make sense! Stop what you're doing now and I will see what I can do about minimizing your prison sentence."

Chuck said nothing. He simply strode forward, and punched the man in the dick.

"Oh what the fuck!" he screamed in pain (that he totally deserved), as he fell down on the roof.

"I'm gonna do that 910 more times, motherfucker! And every time it's gonna hurt more than the last!"

Chuck pulled back his fist to deliver another stabbing punch of the American way into the man's groin, but the Evil Sergeant let out a kick to the head, sending Chuck flying back.

"Fine! I didn't want to fight you," Russell (of evil) said, getting off the ground and raising his fists, "but you are a threat to the security of this nation!"

Pulling himself back onto his feet, Chuck pointed a single finger at the man and yelled out, "Go get ‘em boy!"

"What are you—"

But at that moment a fully grown bald eagle flew out of Chuck's truck and ripped the man's eyes out of their sockets.


The eagle devoured the eyes and then, using its talons, rolled the man off of the side of the van, where he probably died.

Chuck held out an arm and the eagle landed on it, still sucking a little bit of one of the eyes into its mouth.

"Good job, Springsteen, you did me proud," Chuck said, a single tear of happiness rolling down his cheek.

"Now I want you to go grab me a weapon from one of those police cars back there."

Springsteen nodded, then flew to the nearest police car and promptly ripped out an officer's eyes and stole his shotgun.

"Thank ye'!" Chuck said, grasping the cold steel of the finely crafted weapon in his hands.

Springsteen let out a loud scream, grabbed the flag from Chuck's pocket, and flew out over the highway, letting the banner of freedom fly, disappearing into the brilliant sun.

"God I love that bird," Chuck muttered to himself. Then he shot four rounds into the van where he thought the driver might be sitting. He was right.

The van started swerving something terrible, rolling Chuck around like a rag doll.

"Dammit all!" he cursed. Quite often actually.

He jumped from the van onto his Truck of Flaming Patriotism (But Not Flaming in a Gay Way), and clamored into the driver's side door, where he saw his cell phone laying open on the seat, apparently someone was on the other line.

"Hello, this is Chuck," he said nonchalantly, cracking open another Miller.

"Oh thank God. Listen Chuck, this is Governor Strickland, do not, I repeat, do NOT"

"Hold that thought for just one moment, sir! The last of the terrorists are getting away!"

"No Chuck listen—"

Chuck cast the phone aside and tried to apply extra pressure to the case of Jack still propelling the truck, as he saw that someone had apparently retaken control of the last van, as it had stopped swerving.

"Damn desert bastards! Just don't know when to stop being terrorists and die!"

"You have the wrong man! The enemies of our nation are getting away!" he shouted, wildly gesticulating past his smoking truck.Pressing as hard as he could, he managed to coax a couple of extra miles per hour of the old truck (it was actually fairly new) and close the gap.

He heard the sounds of gunfire, followed by what sounded remarkably like bullets hitting the back of his cab. Those cops are terrible shots. Can't even hit the damn terrorists!

Chuck nudged the back of the van, trying to fishtail it and crush it under his wheels of liberty, but to no avail.

He was about to start looking for more shotgun shells when something caught his eye in the road ahead of him. What the hell?

Two massive trucks were situated about two hundred feet down the road, sitting on the grass on either side of it, not doing anything. Or at least that's what Chuck thought.

Out of nowhere a huge, thick rope of some kind stretched taught in the air over the highway between the trucks. The van just barely skimmed under it harmlessly, but Chuck was not quite so lucky. It caught the top of his enormous truck. And flipped him.

Yeah, you read that right. The brilliant beacon of benevolent patriotism hit the rope, sending forward into a full front flip and a half, crashing on its roof.

The truck lay there crushed in the cracked blacktop of the highway, smoke billowing out from the sides. On the inside, Chuck coughed out blood, picking bits of broken glass out of his arm, and took a swig of Miller. Good thing he hadn't been wearing his seat belt, or else he would be hanging upside down and would look just ridiculous.

He smelled burning fuel and decided it was probably a good time to get out of the truck.

Somehow, not having any broken bones, Chuck crawled his way out of the wreckage, pulling himself forward with one hand, maintaining a steady grip on his patriotism-enhancing Jack Daniels in the other.

He got to his feet in the still dazzling sunshine and took a swig.

"Put your hands in the air!" one of the forty police officers aiming weapons at him shouted.

"One sec, guys!" Chuck shouted back. He then downed the whole bottle, dropped it on the blacktop, and raised his hands in compliance.

"You have the wrong man! The enemies of our nation are getting away!" he shouted, wildly gesticulating past his smoking truck in the direction the van had gone.

Not a single officer budged, every one keeping their gun trained solely on him.

At this point Chuck thought that maybe he had done something to possibly offend them. He racked his brains in search of some explanation as to what he might have done. Nothing came to mind.

The thumping sound of helicopter blades signaled the approach of some aerial support.

Turning to face the sound, Chuck saw several choppers flying above the field towards the highway, most bearing the insignia of news stations on the sides, a couple of police birds and one matte black one.

The cops handcuffed Chuck, who went along with it in the name of respecting the authority figures of America. Plus he would probably get his reward soon and be set free as soon as Strickland got a hold of him and was filled in on what happened.

The helicopters began circling the area, taking in the scene. Save for the black one. It touched down in the field next to the highway, several men in uniform running over to meet it. The door on the side opened and Chuck smiled at the sight of a familiar face.

Governor Strickland and two of his aids stepped out of the helicopter and jogged across the field towards the crash site as the wind from the chopper slowly wound down.

A tall, respectable-looking fellow, Strickland today wore a long, thin, black overcoat draped over his thin frame. His glasses and short blond comb over seemed to struggle to stay on his head. He looked quite formidable for his age, his thick eyebrows and sharp facial features disguising the fact that he was almost sixty. None of this mattered really, because he looked pissed as fuck.

"Chuck, I told you to wait," he shouted, pushing his way through the crowd of police officers.

"I know, and I'm sorry sir, but the enemies of this great nation would not wait to commit heinous acts of terror! I had to leap into action!" Chuck said, doing a bit of little hop, probably trying to drive that "leaping" point home, but not wanting to actually leap and piss off the two cops keeping firm grips on his shoulders.

Strickland stopped a few feet short of Chuck, looking him dead in the eyes.

"I'm just going to come right out and say it," he said, taking off his glasses and wiping them on his coat.

He reaffixed them before saying, "You just murdered several members of the National Guard."

"Oh…so that's why they had the American flag on their uniforms…." Chuck said, just sort of staring at his feet.

"Yes, that is exactly why. There will be no defense for your actions today Chuck. You have really crossed the line this time. You usually stop just short of causing any real damage with your obsessive mischief, but this time you have really crossed a line."

"I maybe put a toe across it…" Chuck muttered.

"A toe across the line? Chuck, you took off full bore at the line, ramped your truck over the line and a hundred flaming school buses with the children still in them. You then got out of your truck and sprinted a mile past the line, where you drilled a hole in the ground and fucked it."

A moment of silence.

"Real colorful imagery there, sir. So how long do you reckon I'll be in the slammer this time? Week? Month? Maybe three?"

"That's for the jury to decide. Officers, take him away."

Strickland turned and walked back towards his aids as two strong armed officers assisted in walking Chuck to the nearest squad car.

They placed him in the back seat and immediately took off, sirens blaring.

Then his truck blew up.

Chuck watched in amazement as his truck exploded into a fireball the shape of the American flag, fireworks shooting out from all angles. His eagle soared majestically overhead.

Six more people died.