PART 3: GIANT SASQUATCH ROADKILL!! | Giant Bigfoot Creature Hit By Truck At 80 MPH

⚙️ The Iron Vise: Repossessing the Tools of Deception

The $40,000 wasn’t a reward; it was a muzzle. But a lie built on coercion leaves cracks, and through those cracks, a man who knows trucks can see the weak points. Eight years I drove the Peterbilt, the same rig they had retrieved, magically fixed, and returned to me in Forks. I drove it knowing that it wasn’t just my livelihood; it was a pawn in their ugly, silent war against the truth. That truck was my witness, and it was time to make it talk.

The government network—the black suits, the nameless agents, and the local snake, Rick—believed they had covered every angle. They fixed the tire, cleared the wreck, and sealed the mouth of the one human witness. Their hypocrisy was that they used the tools of my trade—the very infrastructure of independent hauling—to execute their conspiracy. They relied on truckers to move their illegal timber and their secrets. That dependence was their fatal flaw.

The Tracking Beacon

I knew Rick was too sloppy, and the black suits too arrogant, to leave the retrieved Peterbilt entirely alone. My truck was their successful operation’s central exhibit. It was the last known point of contact before the fatal collision. It was also proof that I was involved in illegal activities, giving them permanent leverage. They wouldn’t have just repaired the tire; they would have installed a silent, sophisticated surveillance package. And they did.

Over a week of meticulous, late-night dismantling in a remote storage unit outside Spokane, I found it: a dense, highly shielded tracking beacon wired deep into the truck’s engine control module, far beyond any standard GPS. It wasn’t just transmitting my location; it was linked to the rig’s diagnostic bus, capable of monitoring my speed, my routes, and even how often I stopped. The network wasn’t just watching me; they were measuring my silence. They were counting the hours until I broke.

The irony of their arrogance is a bitter pill. They handed me back the weapon they intended to use against me, trusting that my fear was stronger than my fury. They wanted me to drive their highways in their digital cage, while they continued their systematic destruction of the Olympic Peninsula’s sanctity.

Turning the Leash

The moment I disconnected that beacon, the world shifted. I didn’t destroy it; I simply rerouted its power source to a cheap, battery-operated burner phone, and started feeding it a pre-programmed route—a cynical journey into the most desolate, federally controlled lands of Idaho. While the suits were busy tracking my ghostly, silent Peterbilt deep into the Rockies, I started working on Rick.

Rick’s office in Seattle was a small, grimy testament to the rot of the logistics industry, a place where ethical lines are blurred by the scent of diesel and desperation. He was always on the move, but his financial records—which I accessed through a contact, a disgraced former accountant who knew the smell of illegal cash—were beautifully clear. Rick wasn’t just profiting from illegal hauling; he was systematically purchasing distressed property surrounding the areas I identified as the Sasquatch’s home range, creating a ‘buffer zone’ for future government land acquisition. He was the local agent of economic colonialism, leveraging his knowledge of a priceless natural secret for personal gain. His hypocrisy was the purest form of betrayal: selling out his own backyard.

The ultimate injustice wasn’t the dead creature, but the way they had contaminated everything I valued. My truck, my routes, the very concept of a fair day’s work—all were corrupted by their fear of the truth.

The Counter-Move

My plan was simple and vicious, leveraging the same lack of paper trail they used against me. I compiled the financial data and the precise coordinates of the two active monitoring cabins—the ones they had likely already restocked and reactivated after my escape. Then, I didn’t go to the FBI or the state police. Those systems are already compromised.

I went to the only people who would understand the price of land and the value of a secret: the legitimate, legal timber barons. I didn’t talk about Sasquatch. I talked about market manipulation, illegal land grabs, and a deep-state conspiracy to depress the value of prime Washington timberland by fabricating environmental crises. I showed them Rick’s transactions and the evidence that federal agents were operating unsanctioned surveillance on sovereign tribal lands adjacent to their holdings.

The result was swift and beautifully brutal. The legitimate industry doesn’t tolerate being undermined by government black ops. They dispatched their own legal and investigative heavy hitters, not to find the creature, but to dismantle the network that was messing with their balance sheets. The next week, Rick’s office was shuttered, his assets frozen, and his name vanished from the industry registries, replaced by the crushing silence of an internal corporate takedown.

I drove on, the silence from the non-existent tracker in the Idaho mountains mocking the men in black. I know the creature’s death was in vain, a final, tragic proof of the world’s beauty that the powerful felt compelled to extinguish. But I took their toy away, and I broke their local pawn. The road is still long, and the shadows are still deep, but for the first time in eight years, the road I’m on is my own. The fight for the truth about the creature has ended; the fight against the people who profited from its death has just begun.