The Studebaker skidded on the rain-slicked asphalt and hit the gravel on the verge of the road. A blown tire.
I killed the lights. The night loomed in over the windscreen. A cold moon lit the deserted highway. I got out of the car and lit a cigarette. The hoot of an owl penetrated the drizzle. I needed to move. The cops were wise by now. Never trust a dame with attitude and a fur. I was wise too late. Framed. On the lam.
I pulled up my coat collar and headed down the road – there must be a house hereabouts. All I heard were my shoes scraping the gravel.
She came at me from behind. At first all I heard was panting, a wild orgasmic moan. A blonde running down the road and naked under a trench coat. Hysterical, crazy, and calling out “the big what’s-it!”. Figures. Of all the highways in all the world to hit the skids. A crazy beatnik in an open sports rod screeches past chasing that dizzy broad shouting “va-va-vroom”. His headlights lit up a California bungalow off the side of the road. I head for it. Big mistake.
The cloying fragrance of honey-suckle. I hit the bell. A dame in a towel and a crazy blonde wig pulls open the door. “You’re not selling insurance are you”, she says all aglow.
“Lady, I’m selling whatever you’re buying.”