truck stop prostitute
hora savla kertow
truck stop oor Kornies
truck stop
en
A roadside service area, usually consisting of a restaurant and fueling station and sometimes a motel or hotel, where drivers of long-haul trucks can stop to refuel, eat, and rest.
Vertalings in die woordeboek Engels - Kornies
petrolva gertow
en
service station for lorries
kw
petrolva dhe gertow
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truck stop prostitute
Ple’ma dha fleghes?langbot langbot
truck stop
Ni a wre triga omma.langbot langbot
As the truck, once again, came to rest, I think the zombies sensed an opportunity – an opportunity for a feed. There were, maybe, fifty or so of them – all youthful and obviously anxious and active. They pressed forward, ready to attack. Tough luck, guys – we’d worked this one out in advance. David got out of the truck and directed his loudest roar at them. The Earth seemed to shake once again. Since they had never experienced such a thing, that startled them and, momentarily at least, stopped them from pressing forward. This gave me sufficient time also to exit the cab and climb onto the roof of the truck. I skipped to the back and dropped down between the rear of the truck and the library doors. Opening the rear of the van – two thick swing doors – created partial protection from the zombies but we still needed to be quick because they could make their way underneath the truck’s doors. Based on what had happened when David roared at his fellows when we had left the Baillieu, I estimated that we would have a minute or two before the zombies started to press once again. I hoped I was correct. I could see the Baillieu survivors inside, observing the unfolding events. I could see Jude looking at me – and the mountains of food inside the truck. “Hey, Jude!” I yelled. “Tucker time! Open up.” The survivors got the message. The library doors were manually slid open – just wide enough for two men to get through - and part of the barricade was pushed aside. Several of the Baillieu’s wasted inmates, including Jude (“Henrietta- Maria”) emerged and hastily formed two human chains. Jude and I jumped up into the rear of the truck and feverishly passed the looser items down our respective human chains. Fresh supplies flooded into the Baillieu and I could see them piling up haphazardly inside the foyer. I could hear David still roaring at the other zombies but guessed that time was getting very short now. One against fifty – even when the one had access to a non-zombified brain – were desperately poor odds. He would soon be brushed aside by his fellows.
Tom a vynna y brena.langbot langbot
But this was not the case – and I was perfectly capable of driving this thing, at low speed and in low gears, for the required distance. For you see, during my previous Summer holidays, I had worked in the yard at IPEC (a now-defunct trucking firm). I was, of course, only paid to load trucks but, from time to time, I was called upon to shift trucks in the yard to get them out of the way of essential operations. Shit! I knew quite enough to shift this baby – at 5 mph or so. Having moved the somewhat tattered driver’s seat (the driver must have been a much bigger man than I was – and tough on the fabric) and then, having re- acquainted myself with the basic controls, I crunched the gears loudly and we were off – at a crawl. I had time to try the radio – still no broadcasts worth listening to. No news. No information. What were ‘the authorities’ up to and why weren’t they here, rescuing us? After an uncommonly long time, we reached the intersection of Lygon Street and Princes Street. I executed a right-hand turn, taking down a traffic sign in the process – no matter. Then, after a further crawl towards College Crescent, I decided to abandon the idea of actually entering the cemetery. (Perhaps I wasn’t quite as good at driving trucks as I had thought.) Meantime, I caught David, in the (much less shabby) passenger seat, waving at the numerous zombies who had stopped at the side of the road to observe the spectacle of my miserable driving. Cheeky bastard! None of them waved back – I guess waving isn’t a regular zombie-thing. (And David was, and is, no regular zombie.) I pulled the truck up outside the main entrance of the cemetery and ‘parked’ in the middle of the road. (There was, of course, no other traffic to be obstructed.) I left it idling. “Come on, Dave,” I said. “We’re going to get Paul and Charles.”
My a dheuth rag y ladha.langbot langbot
Once again, I battled with the gears of the vehicle: Crunch! Crunch! Crunch! Paul helpfully assisted the process by asking: “Are you sure you can drive this thing?” (and other questions in that vein.) Thanks, Paul. In any event, I eventually found a gear that was low enough to allow the truck to move off with a lurch. “Now, that’s a fine gear,” I observed as we cruised along at 4 or 5 mph. “I think we should stick with that one, don’t you?” Paul and David huffed in contempt – as one – but made no verbal reply. That was a little bit disturbing. After all, Paul hadn’t fully recovered from his bite as yet. Oh well, Paul would soon be at the Baillieu – and no longer my problem. We exited College Crescent and entered Royal Parade, heading South. I needed to find the entrance on the West side of campus which would take me neatly to the front of the Baillieu. (This route is no longer possible – too many new buildings on campus.) I did, of course, have plenty of time to keep a look-out but was conscious of the fact that we were travelling, in effect, in the service lane of Royal Parade. The width of the service lane was quite tight and I was hemmed in on both sides by rows of mature elm trees. (Very pretty, of course, but a real problem when trying to manoeuvre a large truck.) I spotted the entrance – eventually – and applied the brake very gingerly. I didn’t want to stall the bugger after all this – and I couldn’t actually remember how to re-start one if the engine stopped. I didn’t share this fact with my passengers, deciding that they wouldn’t be much interested in my ignorance on this point. Left turn. Side swipe the trunk of a very large tree. (Crunch!) Drive over the top of the gate-keeper’s booth. (Loud metallic, crumpling sound.) Smash through boom gate. (Snap!) “Fuck!” screamed my gay friends in unison. “Hmm,” I said. “Yes, that did go well, didn’t it?” “Are we there yet, Dad?” said Paul in a weak and quavering voice.
Nyns yw res dhis gowleverel.langbot langbot
5 sinne gevind in 4 ms. Hulle kom uit baie bronne en word nie nagegaan nie.