Frank picked up Sally Chop, as she wanted to be called, driving 66. After a few miles, she leaned over and licked his ear. He hated it but he didn’t want to be rude, so he looked her over.
“What’s with the paper bag, baby?
“Never mind the bag, toss me a smoke she purred rolling her eyes.
After a few miles he said
“Look, tell me what’s in the bag. Cut the shit. Let me see what’s in it or get the fuck out here and now.”
“Say, Baby,” a cat like look spread on her face, “you know the story on the motel TV about this crack pot, creepy killer, who goes around removing people’s wind pipes. They said the only tip they have is a dark figure in a hoodie.
“It’s a bunch of shit the television people made up,” he sighed.
Drifting down the highway, the car buffeted by the wind and sand, there was small fuel sign. It had taken a beating from the sand and wind.
Pulling off the road they slid to a stop a few feet from the pump. Frank turned to face to her.
“You’ve been yakking about the fucking bag since we started out. So you brought it along. Open the fucking thing or pitch it.”
She opened the bag. He thought he’d vomit from the stench. She jerked the bloody head out. One eye had film over it.
“What the hell?”
“No, I think it’s time for you to go to hell.”
She reached back in the bag pulled up a silver hand gun, with a silencer, and in two pops Frank had a look of disbelief in his eyes; he was gone.