Last yellow crumb of meth. I burn my thumb lighting a tin foil pipe and steering with my elbows. Hersey’s wrapper, got the kind with almonds, think I knocked a filling loose. Mouth has tasted like blood, like rusty iron, for five hundred miles, even before the heresy’s. When you go faster you die faster.
I used to tell Bubba that, 100 pounds of mountain cur. Bubba was her dog. Not me, I’d name a mountain cur Chancy or Reginald or --- what’s the butlers name in the Chesterton books? That’s what I’d call a mountain cur. Christ I loved her. I told bubba he didn’t need to put his nose to the windshield; we were all getting there at the same time. I really loved her. I still love her. I’m dying faster.
I pass a Torino on the side of the road, gear down, looked like a crown Vic, I keep looking in the rearview for the square high beams and the red and blues. They aren’t coming or not from the derelict Torino. God, please, I never asked for much, just let me get to Huntington, then you can have this flesh, you can have whatever you want, let me get to Huntington.
I push her back into overdrive, 1970 Nova, no lock on the steering column. Seven years on a State farm I can still boost Detroit steel in under sixty seconds. She red lines at a hundred. Half hour under the hood I could get to 120 easy, need weight in the trunk to keep her down. I fumble in the gas station bag, shaky; I grab the Newport’s a little too hard. Three smokes left and two of em broke at the filter. I rip the filter off, thumb hurts as I light it. Harsh menthol, rust, iron, I can taste myself dying.
Huntington, god, just let me get there, just let me talk to her. I ain’t even seen the kid, there’s a kid, we were married God, the kid is no bastard. Another Torino? The nova sounds like a plane landing as I push her back into fourth, like all the air brakes are coming on. Still I brush by at eighty nine. Square Headlights, black and white crown Vic, pulls from the shoulder with the red and blues. I’m not outrunning a radio. I fumble in the bag for the snub nosed, shitty little weapon, not much good at ten feet, but does the job at five. Got three rounds. Enough for a cop, not for a radio. Please god, take him first, let me get to Huntington; I’ll kill whoever you want you loveless son of a bitch. Please.
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