I trade you a faulty transmission and give you an alibi for every dead cheerleader. For every
Debbie sidling up to a car parked mysteriously empty in a clearing. Every webbed over
window where something very bad happened. Every skirted lap he tried to caress. Witnesses
hang themselves in the telling. This one certain the devil was involved. The borrowed shovel
he used to bury the body. Another watching behind dirty curtains and caressing himself
through his khakis. The slack weight of a hundred men and their desires worn rusty as the
Ford he sold to the woman in Freemont for a discount. The cunt had no clue he'd pulled it
from the bottom of the lake the previous summer, full of bluegill spilling out onto the gravel.