The trailer door opens on smoke so stale it merely oozes into life. Butts spill as fallen sentries across the foldout table, walls all but dripping with enough tar to preserve the sad scene indefinitely. Paul Brent’s ashtray doth runneth over.
“You know where she is,” he says. “Showed enough damn police today.”
The visitor – smells of hospital, dresses like Vegas – moseys on through to the bedroom, while Brent’s fugue briefly lifts, dispelled by an old familiar thrum.
“That a ‘56 T-bird you got out there?”
The driver doesn’t answer, but courteously addresses Susannah’s corpse just so:
“My, oh my.”
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Well my o my!!