Richard was not alone. There was someone with him as his black—and bodywork gray front fender—1979 Ford Mustang pulled out of the first rest area past Strasburg, Virginia, back onto 81, heading south towards Knoxville.
He had known it would happen, but it had been six months since he had spent more than two hours in his car—he had avoided long trips to see his brother in Denver or his cousin Todd in Alabama for specifically this reason. The Mustang had over eighty-seven thousand miles on it, but it was still a solid car, and it could make the trip. No, the car wasn’t the problem. It was Richard’s head that was the problem. What Richard’s head did, when he was alone for long periods of time with nothing to focus on, that was the problem.
And it was getting worse. The first few hours, he managed mostly to think about the story. About talking to Dr. Petersen and Dr. Yukishito, about how, about the approach he would take in questioning Jon—he hadn’t spent much time interviewing kids, and wanted to give some consideration on how to conduct the interview, especially when Richard would be trying to get at information Jon had not been consciously paying attention to, or directly aware of when he had talked to Bernhard. Also, there was the issue of how best to approach Doreen. Any risk of something happening between Debi and him had been, he was pretty sure, pure fantasy. Doreen was probably going to be another story, and how to put her off without getting kicked out, and cutting of his access to her kid, might end up being a delicate task. And when he thought about his phone conversation with Doreen yesterday, he started thinking about Julie.
Watch where you going, she said in his head. He’s turning! He’s stopping! Where did you learn to drive? Slow down!
Small little things, he guessed. The nausea they made him feel as he heard them—as she said them, in his head, right now—was disproportional. He knew that. No big deal, really, just they had never stopped. It wasn’t just that they hadn’t stopped when Julie had been with him, either. It was that they hadn’t stopped, period.
The divorce had been terrible, like having his heart ripped out of his chest, spit on, stomped on, and stuck in a blender and pureed along with his wallet, but he had had at least had one consolation, and after awhile it had been the only thing that had kept him going: after the divorce, he had thought, he would be free. Never again and After this, I’ll be free had become his mantras. He would be able to drive somewhere without hearing how he was doing it wrong. He would be able to make up the bed or put up the dishes–or not—or bring home groceries and put them up without an ongoing critique and how he was doing it wrong. Without the exasperated breaths, the sighs. The way she would shake her head disbelievingly at how he might put the peanut butter on the top shelf when there was clearly peanut butter on the shelf below that one, that was the peanut butter shelf. How she would sigh and shake her head: how could she have married so far beneath her station? After the divorce, he had thought, he could sit down for and rest for a few moments without being told how he had ruined their lives. He could get ready in the morning and, if he had forgotten something or if he was running a little late, he could suffer these all-too-human failings without blow-by-blow commentary, or an extended regurgitation of how he was always late, how he always forgot, how he just didn’t care if he was a failure, how having spent too long in the shower meant he hated her and wanted to make both their lives miserable. And, speaking of the shower, let’s not even get started on hair in the drain.
In the weeks and months after the divorce, Richard had come to realize with a dawning horror that it wasn’t true. That he wasn’t free. At all. That the blissful ignorance he had enjoyed in regards to his numerous failings and inadequacies, that the casualness with which he had gotten over his little mistakes and transgressions before Julie, was forever gone. Gone. He could not burn a pizza and just go ahead and eat it, like he had before. Now he had to stare at it, hearing Julie’s voice in his head—you can’t even cook a fucking pizza am I only person who can do anything why are you so fucking incompetent? And Julie would harangue him, in his mind, until he threw the pizza away and went to bed. Where he would dream about Julie, hand on her hip, finger in his face. You did this! You made us miserable! This is your fault! You ruined everything!
He had always wanted to make it work, when they were married, even though, in retrospect, that clearly hadn’t been what was on Julie’s mind—otherwise, why would she have been busy fucking Jason Bishop when she couldn’t give him the goddamned time of day? He had considered himself fairly noble—trying to make their love work against the odds, putting up with what was often cruel treatment because his love for her would somehow make it all work out. Not only had than been stupidly naïve, but it had been an act of self-deception. Because the Julie he lived with now, the one in his head, was worse.
Memories of the Julie he had married—the nice Julie, the charming Julie, the Julie he had occasionally gotten along with—were completely squeezed out by this harping hyper-critical bitch that would not shut up. He knew they were there—Julie had made efforts, at the beginning, to say nice things, to do things for him, to think of him, once and a while. But there was none of that in the Julie he was left with. In fact, the Julie he was left with was concentrated to a degree he had only really experienced during the divorce. Yet, poor, noble Richard—all his mind could remember was the bad stuff. The terrible stuff. How noble.
He couldn’t forgive her for it. For any of it. For leaving him, for cheating on him, for making him give up everything and then giving Jason Bishop head every day—or every other day, or however many times. Julie had made a point of letting him know it had been a lot. But she had been blowing Jason Bishop for lunch while she had frozen Richard out for weeks and even months. After the first two months of marriage, they hadn’t had sex unless Julie was completely tanked. And, somehow, stopping in the middle of love-making so your wife could go puke, that had kind of spoiled it for him. Then, finding out she had been fucking somebody else on an almost daily basis, well. That had kind of spoiled it for him, too.
He couldn’t forgive her. He couldn’t get over it. So much for poor, noble Richard. Stupid, deluded, shallow Richard was more like it. He had seriously wanted to make it work—had even started out the first conferences with the lawyers, begging, almost pleading to give it another go. After he had found out about Jason Bishop—after he had seen it—he had still wanted to make it work. After it was clear that she didn’t just not love him. She didn’t just not like him. It had become clear that she despised him. Loathed him. And Richard had wanted them to stay together, anyway. He had wanted to stay married to a woman who hated him. Noble? Not hardly.
That was something else he couldn’t forgive Julie for. Julie had shown him that most of things he had believed were good about himself, that the qualities he had thought were admirable and even noble, were mostly shallow, self-serving bullshit. At one point time, he had actually thought he was a pretty decent person. She had taken that ill-conceived notion with her when she had left, too.
He had known it would happen, but it had been six months since he had spent more than two hours in his car—he had avoided long trips to see his brother in Denver or his cousin Todd in Alabama for specifically this reason. The Mustang had over eighty-seven thousand miles on it, but it was still a solid car, and it could make the trip. No, the car wasn’t the problem. It was Richard’s head that was the problem. What Richard’s head did, when he was alone for long periods of time with nothing to focus on, that was the problem.
And it was getting worse. The first few hours, he managed mostly to think about the story. About talking to Dr. Petersen and Dr. Yukishito, about how, about the approach he would take in questioning Jon—he hadn’t spent much time interviewing kids, and wanted to give some consideration on how to conduct the interview, especially when Richard would be trying to get at information Jon had not been consciously paying attention to, or directly aware of when he had talked to Bernhard. Also, there was the issue of how best to approach Doreen. Any risk of something happening between Debi and him had been, he was pretty sure, pure fantasy. Doreen was probably going to be another story, and how to put her off without getting kicked out, and cutting of his access to her kid, might end up being a delicate task. And when he thought about his phone conversation with Doreen yesterday, he started thinking about Julie.
Watch where you going, she said in his head. He’s turning! He’s stopping! Where did you learn to drive? Slow down!
Small little things, he guessed. The nausea they made him feel as he heard them—as she said them, in his head, right now—was disproportional. He knew that. No big deal, really, just they had never stopped. It wasn’t just that they hadn’t stopped when Julie had been with him, either. It was that they hadn’t stopped, period.
The divorce had been terrible, like having his heart ripped out of his chest, spit on, stomped on, and stuck in a blender and pureed along with his wallet, but he had had at least had one consolation, and after awhile it had been the only thing that had kept him going: after the divorce, he had thought, he would be free. Never again and After this, I’ll be free had become his mantras. He would be able to drive somewhere without hearing how he was doing it wrong. He would be able to make up the bed or put up the dishes–or not—or bring home groceries and put them up without an ongoing critique and how he was doing it wrong. Without the exasperated breaths, the sighs. The way she would shake her head disbelievingly at how he might put the peanut butter on the top shelf when there was clearly peanut butter on the shelf below that one, that was the peanut butter shelf. How she would sigh and shake her head: how could she have married so far beneath her station? After the divorce, he had thought, he could sit down for and rest for a few moments without being told how he had ruined their lives. He could get ready in the morning and, if he had forgotten something or if he was running a little late, he could suffer these all-too-human failings without blow-by-blow commentary, or an extended regurgitation of how he was always late, how he always forgot, how he just didn’t care if he was a failure, how having spent too long in the shower meant he hated her and wanted to make both their lives miserable. And, speaking of the shower, let’s not even get started on hair in the drain.
In the weeks and months after the divorce, Richard had come to realize with a dawning horror that it wasn’t true. That he wasn’t free. At all. That the blissful ignorance he had enjoyed in regards to his numerous failings and inadequacies, that the casualness with which he had gotten over his little mistakes and transgressions before Julie, was forever gone. Gone. He could not burn a pizza and just go ahead and eat it, like he had before. Now he had to stare at it, hearing Julie’s voice in his head—you can’t even cook a fucking pizza am I only person who can do anything why are you so fucking incompetent? And Julie would harangue him, in his mind, until he threw the pizza away and went to bed. Where he would dream about Julie, hand on her hip, finger in his face. You did this! You made us miserable! This is your fault! You ruined everything!
He had always wanted to make it work, when they were married, even though, in retrospect, that clearly hadn’t been what was on Julie’s mind—otherwise, why would she have been busy fucking Jason Bishop when she couldn’t give him the goddamned time of day? He had considered himself fairly noble—trying to make their love work against the odds, putting up with what was often cruel treatment because his love for her would somehow make it all work out. Not only had than been stupidly naïve, but it had been an act of self-deception. Because the Julie he lived with now, the one in his head, was worse.
Memories of the Julie he had married—the nice Julie, the charming Julie, the Julie he had occasionally gotten along with—were completely squeezed out by this harping hyper-critical bitch that would not shut up. He knew they were there—Julie had made efforts, at the beginning, to say nice things, to do things for him, to think of him, once and a while. But there was none of that in the Julie he was left with. In fact, the Julie he was left with was concentrated to a degree he had only really experienced during the divorce. Yet, poor, noble Richard—all his mind could remember was the bad stuff. The terrible stuff. How noble.
He couldn’t forgive her for it. For any of it. For leaving him, for cheating on him, for making him give up everything and then giving Jason Bishop head every day—or every other day, or however many times. Julie had made a point of letting him know it had been a lot. But she had been blowing Jason Bishop for lunch while she had frozen Richard out for weeks and even months. After the first two months of marriage, they hadn’t had sex unless Julie was completely tanked. And, somehow, stopping in the middle of love-making so your wife could go puke, that had kind of spoiled it for him. Then, finding out she had been fucking somebody else on an almost daily basis, well. That had kind of spoiled it for him, too.
He couldn’t forgive her. He couldn’t get over it. So much for poor, noble Richard. Stupid, deluded, shallow Richard was more like it. He had seriously wanted to make it work—had even started out the first conferences with the lawyers, begging, almost pleading to give it another go. After he had found out about Jason Bishop—after he had seen it—he had still wanted to make it work. After it was clear that she didn’t just not love him. She didn’t just not like him. It had become clear that she despised him. Loathed him. And Richard had wanted them to stay together, anyway. He had wanted to stay married to a woman who hated him. Noble? Not hardly.
That was something else he couldn’t forgive Julie for. Julie had shown him that most of things he had believed were good about himself, that the qualities he had thought were admirable and even noble, were mostly shallow, self-serving bullshit. At one point time, he had actually thought he was a pretty decent person. She had taken that ill-conceived notion with her when she had left, too.
An old smoking Plymouth was puttering in front of him at 30 miles an hour as Richard rapidly closed the gap. He absently put on his turn signal and moved into the left lane to pass him, and there was a blare of horns as he almost got clipped by a big white truck with a faded bag of Doritos painted on the side. As immediate as the burst of adrenaline, as he swerved back into the right lane and slammed on the brakes to avoid back-ending the Plymouth, was Julie’s voice in his head. Are you trying to kill us? Do I need to drive like I do everything else? Are you so completely incompetent that you can’t drive for an hour without wrecking the fucking car? From Julie, who had totaled her car twice, to Richard, who had been in one minor fender bender in his entire life. But the voice didn’t stop there, and that was the thing. It wasn’t just Julie, anymore—it was Julie to the power of 10. The criticism and the anger that would have been spread out across ten different incidents now got compressed into one. The monologues that would have been over several different things across weeks or even months now ran, uninterrupted, back-to-back. All talk, all the time! Said the radio DJ in Richard’s head. And it wasn’t far from the truth.
With nothing to distract himself with on the road, Julie’s voice simply took over his head. Julie’s voice, and his own mewling justifications. But I didn’t . . . but I meant to . . . but you did this . . . but I loved you! He hated hearing those just as much, if not more. Poor Richard. Poor pathetic Richard. He hated both of them. He wished they would both shut up. He didn’t want to hear how everything he did was wrong, he didn’t want to hear how everything she said was mean, he just wanted them both to shut up.
Richard sighed, punching at the radio, trying to find something to listen to. He found UB40 doing "Red, Red Wine", which was innocuous enough. Something to distract him. He had invested everything he had had in his marriage to Julie. Then, it had crashed, and everything he had put into it was gone. He might be able to rebuild his future, but he didn’t know how. And he never would, he thought, if Julie and Richard didn’t just shut up. They were driving him crazy.
On the radio, "Red, Red Wine" transitioned into Bonnie Tyler’s "Total Eclipse of the Heart", requiring that Richard change the station again. He found a sports station relaying details about a game he knew nothing about, but there were no love songs, and it made noise, so he thought that would do for the time being. Unfortunately, he had heard the song enough that he knew the lyrics. Like so many things these days, just a little bit was enough to open the floodgates. Once upon a time I was falling in love, but now I’m only falling apart, Bonnie Tyler sang in his head, despite the obviously changed, non-stupid-love-song-playing radio station. There’s nothing I can do, total eclipse shut up SHUT UP SHUT UP YOU STUPID BITCH SHUT UP!
With nothing to distract himself with on the road, Julie’s voice simply took over his head. Julie’s voice, and his own mewling justifications. But I didn’t . . . but I meant to . . . but you did this . . . but I loved you! He hated hearing those just as much, if not more. Poor Richard. Poor pathetic Richard. He hated both of them. He wished they would both shut up. He didn’t want to hear how everything he did was wrong, he didn’t want to hear how everything she said was mean, he just wanted them both to shut up.
Richard sighed, punching at the radio, trying to find something to listen to. He found UB40 doing "Red, Red Wine", which was innocuous enough. Something to distract him. He had invested everything he had had in his marriage to Julie. Then, it had crashed, and everything he had put into it was gone. He might be able to rebuild his future, but he didn’t know how. And he never would, he thought, if Julie and Richard didn’t just shut up. They were driving him crazy.
On the radio, "Red, Red Wine" transitioned into Bonnie Tyler’s "Total Eclipse of the Heart", requiring that Richard change the station again. He found a sports station relaying details about a game he knew nothing about, but there were no love songs, and it made noise, so he thought that would do for the time being. Unfortunately, he had heard the song enough that he knew the lyrics. Like so many things these days, just a little bit was enough to open the floodgates. Once upon a time I was falling in love, but now I’m only falling apart, Bonnie Tyler sang in his head, despite the obviously changed, non-stupid-love-song-playing radio station. There’s nothing I can do, total eclipse shut up SHUT UP SHUT UP YOU STUPID BITCH SHUT UP!
Richard swerved into the emergency lane and then out of it, this time managing to spill the Diet Pepsi he had picked up at the rest area. “Shit,” he cursed, bending down to pick up the can before it drained entirely onto the floorboard, and he apparently drifted too far into the left lane because there was another blaring of horns—the big, deep throaty foghorn of an eighteen wheeler—and Richard sat bolt upright, swerving back into the right lane, dropping the Diet Pepsi. This time, he just let it drain out onto the floorboard. Are you just going to leave that there? Julie asked. No wonder your car is always such a godawful mess. I am ashamed, Richard. Do you hear me? Ashamed that I’m married to somebody with a car like this. I can’t let anybody see it. It is so embarrassing. Why couldn’t I have married someone who had enough money to buy a decent car? And the basic competence to keep it clean? I keep my car clean. Jason Bishop keeps his car clean. I make sure our house is nice. You just make things a mess. You just make things bad. For everybody. Turn around, bright eyes. Every now and then I fall apart.
Only it wasn’t every now and then, anymore. It was all the goddamn time. Why was it his fault that everything in Julie’s life had been so rotten? He had never felt like this in his life before her. He had never felt so hopeless. He had never felt so beaten. He had never felt so completely rotten about himself. He had never had voices in his head that he couldn’t shut up. Not before her. He had never been so depressed for so long. He had never gone weeks and months where there was nothing he looked forward to, nothing he wanted to do today, tomorrow, or ever again. He had never felt that way before Julie. Why didn’t that count against her? Why was everything his fault? Why did she get off the hook while—
Richard shook his head, careful, this time, to keep his eyes on the road and his car between the little white lines. Shut up shut up shut up! No, he wasn’t alone. There were two other people in his car with him. There was Julie, who couldn’t stop criticizing and judging every little thing. And there was Richard, a Richard who was him but was not, who wouldn’t stop justifying, wouldn’t stop defending, wouldn’t stop finding things wrong with Julie. He hated them both. Well, them and Hall & Oates. And Bonnie Tyler. The actual song had stuff about needing someone now tonight and holding people tight and holding on forever, but the Bonnie Tyler in his head only sang parts of the song: Your love is like a shadow on me all of the time, I don’t know what to do and I’m always in the dark, Richard’s such a stupid loser--
Richard laughed, despite himself. That was stretching it. He was pretty sure the words “Richard’s such a stupid loser” were not in "Total Eclipse of the Heart". Oh, dear Lord, what was he going to do? It had been almost a year since the divorce and he couldn’t shake it. The worst things about the marriage, about Julie and about himself, were still with him, more terrible and more oppressive than ever. Maybe a Bible study girl was not such a bad idea. Although he had already stuck his foot in it with that one, too.
But Debi would forgive him, wouldn’t she? It was a concept Julie had been completely unfamiliar with, and, Richard had come to understand that he wasn’t all that good with it himself. But Debi knew about it. He had seen Debi practice it to a point that had seemed naïve and unjustifiably generous. It wasn’t that long ago that Monk had spiked her story on the Reagan administration getting around congressional restrictions on supplying weapons to the Contras, who were fighting the Sandinistas in Nicaragua, by leaning on Israel, the single largest recipient of U.S. foreign aid, to do the dirty work for them. Everything had checked out, and it was a solid story, but Albert Monk had friends in Washington who were also big supporters of the Reagan administration, not to mention Israel, and he had spiked the story. Debi had told him she understood, and appreciated his editorial insight, and then told him she was going to give her leads over to friends who might would pursue the story. Although Richard had the impression that Monk had leaned on her not to do it, hearing the story from Debi, he was fine with it, he just didn’t want the story in his paper. And she was fine with giving away her story. She might complain about what how Monk handled Richard, or any number of other reporters down at the Tribune that she had gone to bat for in the past, but when Albert Monk spiked her story—a big -story—because he had friends at the golf club? That was all right.
Debi would forgive Richard. He had avoided doing anything alone with Debi on more than one occasion, worried it might lead to something sexual and corrupt their friendship. He had also worried that if they grew closer she would change, like Julie had changed. But, really, was Debi anything like Julie was, before or after they got married? No. More to the point, was it really likely that Debi had wanted something sexual with Richard, or would have done something—some sympathy seduction—with him? No, it wasn’t, and not because she looked like she could be a professional model and Richard did not. It would be because she just wasn’t that way. Had it occurred to him that Debi just wanted to be friends? That she didn’t have some ulterior motive--or possibly some hidden psychosis, explaining his supermodel-wants-to-have-sex-with-rumpled-reporter delusion? Not seriously, he guessed. Shame on him for it, too.
Debi would forgive him. Forgiving himself, that was a much more difficult prospect.
Perhaps a little Bible study with Debi wouldn’t be a bad thing. She seemed to have it a lot more together than he did, that was for sure. And there was a lot about Debi that Richard envied. Although he supposed she could have kept it a secret, the entire four years he had worked at the Tribune he had not known her to have a boyfriend or go out on a date, and she really hadn’t ever seemed worried about it. That was a state that Richard had envied terribly—before, during, and after his marriage. He wished, now, that it had been him. If he could just get Julie out of his own head, and avoid ever having any other romantic entanglement again, as long as he lived—that sounded pretty good. Most of the women he had met in D.C. would disappear in a heartbeat if he invited them to Bible study. Heck, Julie sure as hell would have. Which, to Richard, suggested that Bible study had a lot to recommend it.
You? In church? Julie’s voice mocked. They’ll kick you the hell out. Yeah, fine. Another ringing endorsement from the peanut gallery. Maybe not such a bad idea, after all.
In the distance, Richard saw a green interstate sign that told how far it was to the next major cities. No sign of Knoxville on the signs, yet, but he only had 33 miles to go until he hit Harrisonburg, 57 miles to Bridgewater. What was that? Only eleven more hours. Alone in the car with Julie and Richard. 11 more hours. God help him.
Bible study, Richard thought—and he swore he heard Julie, sighing exasperatedly behind him, as he thought it—wasn’t a bad idea at all. He needed all the help he could get. He hoped that God—whoever or whatever He, She, or It was—could help him. It had been a year—two, if you counted the second, and last, empty year of marriage—and nothing and nobody else had managed to help him yet.
You are hopeless, he heard Julie say, quite clearly, in his head.
Dear God, Richard prayed quietly. Please make that awful bitch shut up. Please fix whatever is wrong in my head and make that terrible awful bitch shut her mouth.
He was certain, from behind him, he heard another sigh.
The excited play calls by the sports announcer on the radio were grating on Richard’s nerves—the guy was entirely too excited about what grown men were doing with a ball, and talking about it entirely too much—so he twisted the dial, looking for a rock station. He found one. On the radio, Hall & Oates, warning him belatedly about the dangers of man-eating women, crooned soulfully about the evils of the female gender. It figured. It just figured.
Giving up, Richard just started singing along with it. “Julie only comes out at night. She's mean, bitchy, uptight—“ He laughed. It might not last him forever, but it was working now. If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em. What the hell. “Money’s the matter, if you’re in it for love, she’ll make you beg for sweet, merciful death!” Richard shouted atonally along with music.
Yes, it was stupid. But he was alone, there would be no witnesses, and he had to do something. It was still a long way to Knoxville.
Debi would forgive him. Forgiving himself, that was a much more difficult prospect.
Perhaps a little Bible study with Debi wouldn’t be a bad thing. She seemed to have it a lot more together than he did, that was for sure. And there was a lot about Debi that Richard envied. Although he supposed she could have kept it a secret, the entire four years he had worked at the Tribune he had not known her to have a boyfriend or go out on a date, and she really hadn’t ever seemed worried about it. That was a state that Richard had envied terribly—before, during, and after his marriage. He wished, now, that it had been him. If he could just get Julie out of his own head, and avoid ever having any other romantic entanglement again, as long as he lived—that sounded pretty good. Most of the women he had met in D.C. would disappear in a heartbeat if he invited them to Bible study. Heck, Julie sure as hell would have. Which, to Richard, suggested that Bible study had a lot to recommend it.
You? In church? Julie’s voice mocked. They’ll kick you the hell out. Yeah, fine. Another ringing endorsement from the peanut gallery. Maybe not such a bad idea, after all.
In the distance, Richard saw a green interstate sign that told how far it was to the next major cities. No sign of Knoxville on the signs, yet, but he only had 33 miles to go until he hit Harrisonburg, 57 miles to Bridgewater. What was that? Only eleven more hours. Alone in the car with Julie and Richard. 11 more hours. God help him.
Bible study, Richard thought—and he swore he heard Julie, sighing exasperatedly behind him, as he thought it—wasn’t a bad idea at all. He needed all the help he could get. He hoped that God—whoever or whatever He, She, or It was—could help him. It had been a year—two, if you counted the second, and last, empty year of marriage—and nothing and nobody else had managed to help him yet.
You are hopeless, he heard Julie say, quite clearly, in his head.
Dear God, Richard prayed quietly. Please make that awful bitch shut up. Please fix whatever is wrong in my head and make that terrible awful bitch shut her mouth.
He was certain, from behind him, he heard another sigh.
The excited play calls by the sports announcer on the radio were grating on Richard’s nerves—the guy was entirely too excited about what grown men were doing with a ball, and talking about it entirely too much—so he twisted the dial, looking for a rock station. He found one. On the radio, Hall & Oates, warning him belatedly about the dangers of man-eating women, crooned soulfully about the evils of the female gender. It figured. It just figured.
Giving up, Richard just started singing along with it. “Julie only comes out at night. She's mean, bitchy, uptight—“ He laughed. It might not last him forever, but it was working now. If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em. What the hell. “Money’s the matter, if you’re in it for love, she’ll make you beg for sweet, merciful death!” Richard shouted atonally along with music.
Yes, it was stupid. But he was alone, there would be no witnesses, and he had to do something. It was still a long way to Knoxville.
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