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He was already on the highway, driving into the setting sun, when Hank emerged from his brain vault. He found himself holding a lit Hillsborough with the window rolled down. He glanced in his rearview mirror. Not in a barrel this time but in the bed was a casket of sorts- Darrell. He brought the cigarette to his lips and took a drag. Ahhh. Taking his hand away from his mouth, he felt his fingers were a little greasy.
The Power Wagon bounced on down the highway towards Campaiyote, and Hank thought about the last job of the day. And the vacation I’m gonna take afterwards. Vacation meaning, two to three days off to get really, thoroughly, properly, absolutely toe-tinglingly drunk. And maybe, have a few bowls of peanuts in between.
Hank realized with a jolt that he didn’t know where he was going, but just as quick, it came rushing back. The important bits usually did. Smiley’s. He was heading to Smiley’s. To prepare Darrell for his appointment with the worms. Personally, Hank was in favor of cremation. After some of the things he’d seen, fire always seemed like the answer. Clean. It does my job better than I ever could.
Hank took another drag off his cigarette and gazed out at the evening highway. The sky was wide and turning a bloody orange. He rubbed his fingers together again, feeling that buttery grease on his skin. A picture of Darrell naked in the…
