turned off onto into a gas station hoping

turned off onto into a gas station hoping to locate a hose to cleanse my soiled shoe, or gun with which to shoot myself. I fantasized walking into the mini-mart that almost all

of the local rednecks visited after school to buy dip or cigarettes or donate money to the state coffers. I noticed a piece of foil that reminded me of my first bank job back in 80

that Nira Girl I met that night behind the Drill Station. She had eyes like dew drops on Muan petals. I hitched a ride on a junker, looking

like it would expire at the next pothole. The driver was a elderly chinese man wearing thick spectacles. He smiled showing a few yellowed teeth and then squinted through the dusty

windshield. We stepped out of the way but my companion took down the license plate number. It was a vanity plate: "NI HAO." "Do you think that was him?" Kim said. "Do you think

he was trying to assassinate you with car?" I looked at Kim, " I don't know. At least we have narrowed the cuplrit to one of several billion who speak Mandarin Chinese." Kim would

know that somehow, the West Mississippi Plastic Pants Task Force could narrow down one of a billion Mandarin Chinese speakers, but she had no way of getting in covert contact with

herself or anyone else. She held her Bleep-o-Matic TrackBakk high overhead and attempted to secure a signal to Plodd. She despaired at the unrelenting static that answered.

"CURSE THE GODS!" she yelled and slumped into a whimpering blob. "Isn't there anybody out there?" "NO!" came the reply. And she was smote.