in a barn beneath the sidewalk

Cured of the pernicious disease of employment, set up with new fingerprints and a mouthful of dead man's teeth, I hit the road one step ahead of my coven of ex-wives and their pet lawyers, the purr of my Chevelle SS straightening every crooked curve in the handful of mush I sardonically call a brain. I had not, sadly, learned my lesson in love, as sitting shotgun was Metal Melissa Maere messing with the radio and trying to remember the quickest route to Bachelor's Grove. She told me she "heard a dude" talk about a coffin full of rijksdaalders beneath a gravestone maked Paul Kenyon, which sounded pretty questionable to me, but what the hell, at least I was out of the house. We'd been sucking on fentanyl lollipops shaped like Mexican sugar skulls Melissa scored off a doctor working out of a trailer under the I35 overpass, so the road was sort of a grey blur I tried my best to follow in between dreams of all the opulence my future fortunes afforded when Melissa cut away the facial plate and found stations between stations telling of how the end will come.