Luis Adam Bree
Forum Regular
- Joined
- Oct 31, 2016
- Messages
- 138
- Location
- London England
The cop was young, only in his mid-twenties from the look of him, but
his relative youth was only the start. It was the way his uniform hugged his
trim, tightly contoured body that really got AKA's attention. If AKA hadn't
known better, he would have thought the uniform was tailor-made. It was that
perfect a fit. It was always interesting to AKA how some guys, apparently
without effort, immediately turned whatever clothes they put on into
sexy-as-hell advertisements for what lay underneath, while others, even when
trying their damnedest, hardly stirred the libido at all. This cop--and AKA
could see from the silver-lettered, light-reflecting ID pinned to the chest that
his last name was Landon--was one of those naturally handsome young men who
always transformed whatever they wore--your standard suit, jeans and a T-shirt,
slacks and a pullover, or even a ratty pair of shorts and flip-flops--into
first-class fashion statements. It was icing on the cake that the face was as
good as the rest of the body. The eyes--a cool robin's egg blue, if AKA was not
mistaken--were set just as far apart as they should be. The nose was as
straight and as perfectly pitched as one could wish. The lips were nicely,
sensuously full, the chin admirably sharp and firm, and the cheekbones prominent
enough to call attention to themselves without descending into excessive
pretty-boy cuteness. A bit of the pretty boy did lurk, if the truth be told,
but it was tempered by the unassuming four-square solidity of the skull and the
broad, tidy flatness of the forehead. The cop had removed his cap and brushed
his hand through his dark wavy hair as he approached AKA's car, so AKA had
gotten a good look at both.
"Yes, officer?" AKA inquired. "Is there a problem?"
There well could be, AKA knew. Stowed in the trunk were the dismembered
remains of AKA's latest victim, a young Honduran immigrant AKA had picked up
outside a local job-bank just the week before. "Sure. I do anything," hunky,
black-eyed Jorge had said in heavily accented English. Of course, he probably
had not intended that "anything" to include getting fucked and then dancing on
the end of a rope, but that is precisely what his final two "odd jobs" of the
day had entailed. He was actually AKA's first full-fledged hanging, since AKA
didn't really count Donovan, the gorgeous, seventeen-year-old nephew-by-marriage
whom AKA had found--despite the risk of offing someone so literally close to
home--just too tempting to resist. Donovan's rather unusual self-executed
hanging had been an interesting variation on the theme, no doubt, but Jorge the
Honduran had danced the true hangman's rope-dance. And for a good
fast-and-furiously-kicking five fatal minutes too!
AKA was glad to see that young Officer Landon was not one of those
arrogant, preening, hard-assed cop types. He did not spread his legs and lean
in, one palm slapped onto the roof of the car, the other menacingly caressing
his holster, with a phony, passive-aggressive,
I-know-you're-guilty-of-something-you-shithead smile plastered on his face.
Instead, he simply stood straight and fit and tall--if somewhat under six-feet,
if AKA was any judge--with a basically unassuming, late-night-tired,
I'm-just-doing-my-job air about him.
"I wondered if you were okay," he said as his eyes--in what was clearly
an automatic professional reflex--moved to scan the night-darkened interior of
AKA's car. "You pulled off the road rather fast."
It was true. AKA had abruptly driven onto the shoulder as soon as he
realized he had missed the turn he had been looking for. The night was that
dark; the turn, as a result, that hard to see. Thus, AKA had overshot it.
There had been a pair of lights behind him for several minutes, but AKA had not
realized they belonged to a police car until the vehicle slowed and pulled off
in front of him--with no lights flashing, fortunately, but, caught in AKA's own
headlights, finally identifiable for what it was.
AKA's heart had immediately missed a beat, but not because of the
dismembered body parts stowed in the truck. No, his heart had missed a beat
when the cop emerged, so obviously young and handsome and finely formed beneath
that sexy, body-hugging uniform of his. His slow approach, his cock-arousing
removal of his cap and brushing of his neat, slim-fingered hand through his
hair, had been--in and of themselves--cause for even more palpitations. AKA
knew that, as a result, his voice, when he spoke, was a bit unsteady, but he
also knew that the young cop--Officer Landon--would most likely attribute it to
a motorist's natural nervousness when confronted in the early morning hours (it
was going on 3 AM according to the clock on the dashboard) by a representative
of the law, even in such seemingly innocuous circumstances as this.
"I missed my turn," AKA announced with an aren't-I-the-stupid-one grin.
"I'm blaming it on the darkness."
The policeman stifled a yawn, looked up, then back down and said, "It is
that. Late too. So where were you headed?"
AKA's first thought was, None of your fucking business! But he quickly
checked himself. That was not the smartest tone to adapt when you had thirteen
neatly wrapped body parts in the trunk. So what should he say? That he lived
near here? AKA didn't, and the cop could easily determine that if he wanted to.
All he had to do was ask to see AKA's license. It also wouldn't do to say AKA
had some garbage he was planning to deposit at 3 AM in the trash-bin behind the
isolated, off-the-beaten-track (not to mention long-closed by now) restaurant he
had been heading for. To be honest, AKA felt oddly, ridiculously trapped.
Nothing really passable in the way of explanation came to his mind at all.
The cop tilted his head and raised his eyebrows.
"You were saying?"
AKA shrugged, opened his mouth, and heard himself reply, "It's a little
embarrassing to admit, but there's this woman, you see. Unfortunately, she's
married and it was about time for her husband to come home, so . . . ."
He grinned a big, fake, conspiratorial grin.
Officer Landon frowned.
This one's a real straight arrow, AKA decided as he drank in the
virtuous, square-shouldered, disapproving posture of the delectable young man on
the other side of the car door.
"That doesn't tell me where you were headed."
The voice was a light, normally friendly (AKA suspected), smooth-toned
tenor, but it had now gone decidedly cold. AKA's manly little "confession" had
clearly won him no Brownie points with this guy.
"Truth is, nowhere, Officer. That is, I was just driving around a bit
before heading home. To wind down from all the excitement of the evening, if
you know what I mean."
The cool robin's-egg-blue eyes--yes, they were definitely robin's egg
blue--probed AKA's own darker, hotter gaze.
"Could I see your license, please."
It was, of course, a command, not a request.
AKA fished out his wallet, then the license itself.
The young policeman took the license from him, pulled a small spotlight
from his shirt pocket, and slowly examined it.
"You been drinking, Mr. ?"
For the first time, AKA got uncomfortable. The fact was that he always
drank when dismembering a corpse. Something to numb the senses was not only
desirable, it was also necessary. At least, AKA had always found it necessary.
Guts and gore had never been his thing.
"Well, earlier in the evening, yes. A Scotch or two."
"You mind stepping out, Mr. ."
Once again it was a command, not a request.
AKA's hand slowly rose to grasp the door handle.
Glancing into the rearview mirror, then as quickly looking ahead, he saw
that there was darkness both ways. Darkness coming and darkness going. For all
practical purposes, he and the young cop were not only alone on the road, they
were alone in the universe.
Later, AKA would realize that he never really thought. He just acted.
Fortunately, the Dark Gods--those ever-lurking, ever-lusty deities whom AKA had
always liked to imagine presided over his on-going, highly successful (fifty and
counting!) serial killer career--were once again looking out for him.
The door caught the young policeman right in the solar plexus.
The flashlight and driver's license went flying.
AKA was out of the car and on his feet before the gasping, scarlet-faced
officer had even collapsed to his knees.
His adrenaline pumping, AKA dove down and wrenched the gun out of the
young man's hand just as it cleared the holster.
Switching the safety off, AKA then lurched back up and pressed the
barrel directly into the officer's violently pulsing right temple. Even in the
darkness, AKA could see the bold veins beating.
"Move and I'll blow your fucking head off!"
The young officer had made it--shakily, breathing hard--up onto one
knee. He abruptly stopped there, his hands lifted, inadvertently genuflecting
before the sinister fate that had so suddenly placed him at AKA's mercy.
"On your belly!" AKA ordered.
The officer didn't move.
AKA cocked the pistol.
"I said on your belly, buster!"
The young policeman slowly bent forward, his arms out, and sank down.
"Flat out! Stomach to the pavement!"
The officer hesitated.
AKA pressed the pistol into the back of the young man's neck.
"Now!"
Reluctantly, cautiously, Officer Landon complied.
AKA straddled the backs of the leanly muscled thighs and jerked the
handcuffs from the hook on the back of the young officer's belt. AKA had a
similar pair of cuffs in his car--just one of the serial killer basics he always
traveled with (since you never knew when you might get lucky)--but on this
occasion it was safer, not to mention oddly entertaining, to secure the
policeman with his own hardware.
"Hands behind your back!"
The upturned palms slowly rose and joined at the base of the spine.
AKA squatted and secured the cuffs. Very tightly, just to be on the
safe side. Then he stood up again.
"You don't want to do this," young Landon finally managed to say.
His voice was raspy, still struggling to recoup its normal tenor range.
"Well, I didn't intend to, but you gave me no choice, did you? You
wouldn't leave well enough alone. You pressed your luck. You're not the first
one to do that, of course."
AKA's mind immediately leapt to Ryland Devore Davies, the
fabulous-looking, gap-toothed, nineteen-year-old lawncare worker who had tried
to muscle a fairly large amount of money out of AKA the previous summer. Good
old Ry had pressed his luck bigtime. Not to mention, dramatically ended the
rather serious slump AKA had been in at the time. Even serial killers have
their downtime, AKA had discovered. But not since Ry Davies. The Honduran kid
was the sixth to go down in as many months. Not a bad average at all.
"Up!" AKA ordered. "And no funny stuff. As you may already have
figured out, I know how to use this."
The truth was, AKA didn't particularly like guns. In particular, he
didn't like the mess they made. But he had decided to learn about them. He had
even got some fairly expert training in their use not that many years back. Now
he knew why. So he would be able to take advantage of a situation like this!
"I got you on the video," the young officer protested as he struggled to
get back onto his feet. AKA was forced to reach down and catch him under the
arm as he launched his final, off-balance heave-up. "The one in the patrol car.
You won't get away with this."
"You're a liar," AKA responded. "I went off the road so quickly that
you had to pull in front of me, remember? As a result, my headlights gave me a
pretty good view of what you were doing before you got out. Besides, you were
so tired you didn't even bother to turn on your emergency lights. Which is how
those cameras usually get activated in the first place, if I'm not mistaken."
AKA scanned the young man's shirtfront. "I've heard a body-mic can be used to
do the same thing, but you don't appear to have one of those. This Podunk town
you work for can't afford it, can they?"
AKA had done a little homework on this business as well. Given what he
so often got up to, he never knew when he might have to deal with the law in
just this way, so better to know as much as he could about how they operated.
He had been amazingly lucky until now. This was only the second cop who had
ever stopped him when he was in serious serial-killer mode. The first one had
been a lot smarter than Officer Landon, however. After going through the
motions--that is, after delivering a tedious little lecture on the dangers of
running a yellow light (yes, a yellow light, of all things!)--he had simply let
AKA go. This, despite the fact that seated beside AKA was a skinny, pug-nosed,
fifteen-year-old hitchhiker AKA had only picked up five minutes before. That
kid--an impressively endowed, tousled-haired runaway who readily agreed to be
introduced to the cop as AKA's own son so as not to "cause any problems," was
soon trussed and fucked and castrated and strangled not ten miles from where the
cop had stopped them.
"Move!" AKA ordered, and herded the young man around to the other side
of his car. There was not enough room, really, in the trunk, so he would have
to join AKA up front.
AKA opened the passenger door with his free hand.
"In."
For a moment, the young officer's body tightened, as if he intended to
hurl himself at AKA.
"Think . . . twice!"
AKA reinforced the point with a hard poke of the pistol in the young
man's side.
Clearly frustrated, Officer Landon exhaled, angrily bent his head, and
got in.
AKA slammed the door and quickly sprinted back around to the driver's
side.
Thanks to the Dark Gods--that was the only way to explain the sudden
recollection that his driver's license was still lying on the pavement where
Landon had dropped it--AKA stooped and retrieved it.
He then slid back behind the wheel, pressed the automatic
door-lock--clack!--and quickly but carefully took off. But not before doing a
u-turn. Just in case the policeman had somehow thought to start the police-car
video. Young Landon may have pressed his luck by deciding to see if AKA were
DUI, but there was no reason that AKA should do the same.
As for Jorge the Honduran--or, to be more precise, the various and
sundry parts of Jorge the Honduran--well, there would be plenty of time to
dispose of him later, AKA decided. Autumn had come. The nights had turned that
distinctive fall cool a couple of weeks back. Hunky Jorge would keep just fine
in the trunk--for as long as it was going to take to deal with this new, and
totally unexpected, offering of the Dark Gods anyway.
his relative youth was only the start. It was the way his uniform hugged his
trim, tightly contoured body that really got AKA's attention. If AKA hadn't
known better, he would have thought the uniform was tailor-made. It was that
perfect a fit. It was always interesting to AKA how some guys, apparently
without effort, immediately turned whatever clothes they put on into
sexy-as-hell advertisements for what lay underneath, while others, even when
trying their damnedest, hardly stirred the libido at all. This cop--and AKA
could see from the silver-lettered, light-reflecting ID pinned to the chest that
his last name was Landon--was one of those naturally handsome young men who
always transformed whatever they wore--your standard suit, jeans and a T-shirt,
slacks and a pullover, or even a ratty pair of shorts and flip-flops--into
first-class fashion statements. It was icing on the cake that the face was as
good as the rest of the body. The eyes--a cool robin's egg blue, if AKA was not
mistaken--were set just as far apart as they should be. The nose was as
straight and as perfectly pitched as one could wish. The lips were nicely,
sensuously full, the chin admirably sharp and firm, and the cheekbones prominent
enough to call attention to themselves without descending into excessive
pretty-boy cuteness. A bit of the pretty boy did lurk, if the truth be told,
but it was tempered by the unassuming four-square solidity of the skull and the
broad, tidy flatness of the forehead. The cop had removed his cap and brushed
his hand through his dark wavy hair as he approached AKA's car, so AKA had
gotten a good look at both.
"Yes, officer?" AKA inquired. "Is there a problem?"
There well could be, AKA knew. Stowed in the trunk were the dismembered
remains of AKA's latest victim, a young Honduran immigrant AKA had picked up
outside a local job-bank just the week before. "Sure. I do anything," hunky,
black-eyed Jorge had said in heavily accented English. Of course, he probably
had not intended that "anything" to include getting fucked and then dancing on
the end of a rope, but that is precisely what his final two "odd jobs" of the
day had entailed. He was actually AKA's first full-fledged hanging, since AKA
didn't really count Donovan, the gorgeous, seventeen-year-old nephew-by-marriage
whom AKA had found--despite the risk of offing someone so literally close to
home--just too tempting to resist. Donovan's rather unusual self-executed
hanging had been an interesting variation on the theme, no doubt, but Jorge the
Honduran had danced the true hangman's rope-dance. And for a good
fast-and-furiously-kicking five fatal minutes too!
AKA was glad to see that young Officer Landon was not one of those
arrogant, preening, hard-assed cop types. He did not spread his legs and lean
in, one palm slapped onto the roof of the car, the other menacingly caressing
his holster, with a phony, passive-aggressive,
I-know-you're-guilty-of-something-you-shithead smile plastered on his face.
Instead, he simply stood straight and fit and tall--if somewhat under six-feet,
if AKA was any judge--with a basically unassuming, late-night-tired,
I'm-just-doing-my-job air about him.
"I wondered if you were okay," he said as his eyes--in what was clearly
an automatic professional reflex--moved to scan the night-darkened interior of
AKA's car. "You pulled off the road rather fast."
It was true. AKA had abruptly driven onto the shoulder as soon as he
realized he had missed the turn he had been looking for. The night was that
dark; the turn, as a result, that hard to see. Thus, AKA had overshot it.
There had been a pair of lights behind him for several minutes, but AKA had not
realized they belonged to a police car until the vehicle slowed and pulled off
in front of him--with no lights flashing, fortunately, but, caught in AKA's own
headlights, finally identifiable for what it was.
AKA's heart had immediately missed a beat, but not because of the
dismembered body parts stowed in the truck. No, his heart had missed a beat
when the cop emerged, so obviously young and handsome and finely formed beneath
that sexy, body-hugging uniform of his. His slow approach, his cock-arousing
removal of his cap and brushing of his neat, slim-fingered hand through his
hair, had been--in and of themselves--cause for even more palpitations. AKA
knew that, as a result, his voice, when he spoke, was a bit unsteady, but he
also knew that the young cop--Officer Landon--would most likely attribute it to
a motorist's natural nervousness when confronted in the early morning hours (it
was going on 3 AM according to the clock on the dashboard) by a representative
of the law, even in such seemingly innocuous circumstances as this.
"I missed my turn," AKA announced with an aren't-I-the-stupid-one grin.
"I'm blaming it on the darkness."
The policeman stifled a yawn, looked up, then back down and said, "It is
that. Late too. So where were you headed?"
AKA's first thought was, None of your fucking business! But he quickly
checked himself. That was not the smartest tone to adapt when you had thirteen
neatly wrapped body parts in the trunk. So what should he say? That he lived
near here? AKA didn't, and the cop could easily determine that if he wanted to.
All he had to do was ask to see AKA's license. It also wouldn't do to say AKA
had some garbage he was planning to deposit at 3 AM in the trash-bin behind the
isolated, off-the-beaten-track (not to mention long-closed by now) restaurant he
had been heading for. To be honest, AKA felt oddly, ridiculously trapped.
Nothing really passable in the way of explanation came to his mind at all.
The cop tilted his head and raised his eyebrows.
"You were saying?"
AKA shrugged, opened his mouth, and heard himself reply, "It's a little
embarrassing to admit, but there's this woman, you see. Unfortunately, she's
married and it was about time for her husband to come home, so . . . ."
He grinned a big, fake, conspiratorial grin.
Officer Landon frowned.
This one's a real straight arrow, AKA decided as he drank in the
virtuous, square-shouldered, disapproving posture of the delectable young man on
the other side of the car door.
"That doesn't tell me where you were headed."
The voice was a light, normally friendly (AKA suspected), smooth-toned
tenor, but it had now gone decidedly cold. AKA's manly little "confession" had
clearly won him no Brownie points with this guy.
"Truth is, nowhere, Officer. That is, I was just driving around a bit
before heading home. To wind down from all the excitement of the evening, if
you know what I mean."
The cool robin's-egg-blue eyes--yes, they were definitely robin's egg
blue--probed AKA's own darker, hotter gaze.
"Could I see your license, please."
It was, of course, a command, not a request.
AKA fished out his wallet, then the license itself.
The young policeman took the license from him, pulled a small spotlight
from his shirt pocket, and slowly examined it.
"You been drinking, Mr. ?"
For the first time, AKA got uncomfortable. The fact was that he always
drank when dismembering a corpse. Something to numb the senses was not only
desirable, it was also necessary. At least, AKA had always found it necessary.
Guts and gore had never been his thing.
"Well, earlier in the evening, yes. A Scotch or two."
"You mind stepping out, Mr. ."
Once again it was a command, not a request.
AKA's hand slowly rose to grasp the door handle.
Glancing into the rearview mirror, then as quickly looking ahead, he saw
that there was darkness both ways. Darkness coming and darkness going. For all
practical purposes, he and the young cop were not only alone on the road, they
were alone in the universe.
Later, AKA would realize that he never really thought. He just acted.
Fortunately, the Dark Gods--those ever-lurking, ever-lusty deities whom AKA had
always liked to imagine presided over his on-going, highly successful (fifty and
counting!) serial killer career--were once again looking out for him.
The door caught the young policeman right in the solar plexus.
The flashlight and driver's license went flying.
AKA was out of the car and on his feet before the gasping, scarlet-faced
officer had even collapsed to his knees.
His adrenaline pumping, AKA dove down and wrenched the gun out of the
young man's hand just as it cleared the holster.
Switching the safety off, AKA then lurched back up and pressed the
barrel directly into the officer's violently pulsing right temple. Even in the
darkness, AKA could see the bold veins beating.
"Move and I'll blow your fucking head off!"
The young officer had made it--shakily, breathing hard--up onto one
knee. He abruptly stopped there, his hands lifted, inadvertently genuflecting
before the sinister fate that had so suddenly placed him at AKA's mercy.
"On your belly!" AKA ordered.
The officer didn't move.
AKA cocked the pistol.
"I said on your belly, buster!"
The young policeman slowly bent forward, his arms out, and sank down.
"Flat out! Stomach to the pavement!"
The officer hesitated.
AKA pressed the pistol into the back of the young man's neck.
"Now!"
Reluctantly, cautiously, Officer Landon complied.
AKA straddled the backs of the leanly muscled thighs and jerked the
handcuffs from the hook on the back of the young officer's belt. AKA had a
similar pair of cuffs in his car--just one of the serial killer basics he always
traveled with (since you never knew when you might get lucky)--but on this
occasion it was safer, not to mention oddly entertaining, to secure the
policeman with his own hardware.
"Hands behind your back!"
The upturned palms slowly rose and joined at the base of the spine.
AKA squatted and secured the cuffs. Very tightly, just to be on the
safe side. Then he stood up again.
"You don't want to do this," young Landon finally managed to say.
His voice was raspy, still struggling to recoup its normal tenor range.
"Well, I didn't intend to, but you gave me no choice, did you? You
wouldn't leave well enough alone. You pressed your luck. You're not the first
one to do that, of course."
AKA's mind immediately leapt to Ryland Devore Davies, the
fabulous-looking, gap-toothed, nineteen-year-old lawncare worker who had tried
to muscle a fairly large amount of money out of AKA the previous summer. Good
old Ry had pressed his luck bigtime. Not to mention, dramatically ended the
rather serious slump AKA had been in at the time. Even serial killers have
their downtime, AKA had discovered. But not since Ry Davies. The Honduran kid
was the sixth to go down in as many months. Not a bad average at all.
"Up!" AKA ordered. "And no funny stuff. As you may already have
figured out, I know how to use this."
The truth was, AKA didn't particularly like guns. In particular, he
didn't like the mess they made. But he had decided to learn about them. He had
even got some fairly expert training in their use not that many years back. Now
he knew why. So he would be able to take advantage of a situation like this!
"I got you on the video," the young officer protested as he struggled to
get back onto his feet. AKA was forced to reach down and catch him under the
arm as he launched his final, off-balance heave-up. "The one in the patrol car.
You won't get away with this."
"You're a liar," AKA responded. "I went off the road so quickly that
you had to pull in front of me, remember? As a result, my headlights gave me a
pretty good view of what you were doing before you got out. Besides, you were
so tired you didn't even bother to turn on your emergency lights. Which is how
those cameras usually get activated in the first place, if I'm not mistaken."
AKA scanned the young man's shirtfront. "I've heard a body-mic can be used to
do the same thing, but you don't appear to have one of those. This Podunk town
you work for can't afford it, can they?"
AKA had done a little homework on this business as well. Given what he
so often got up to, he never knew when he might have to deal with the law in
just this way, so better to know as much as he could about how they operated.
He had been amazingly lucky until now. This was only the second cop who had
ever stopped him when he was in serious serial-killer mode. The first one had
been a lot smarter than Officer Landon, however. After going through the
motions--that is, after delivering a tedious little lecture on the dangers of
running a yellow light (yes, a yellow light, of all things!)--he had simply let
AKA go. This, despite the fact that seated beside AKA was a skinny, pug-nosed,
fifteen-year-old hitchhiker AKA had only picked up five minutes before. That
kid--an impressively endowed, tousled-haired runaway who readily agreed to be
introduced to the cop as AKA's own son so as not to "cause any problems," was
soon trussed and fucked and castrated and strangled not ten miles from where the
cop had stopped them.
"Move!" AKA ordered, and herded the young man around to the other side
of his car. There was not enough room, really, in the trunk, so he would have
to join AKA up front.
AKA opened the passenger door with his free hand.
"In."
For a moment, the young officer's body tightened, as if he intended to
hurl himself at AKA.
"Think . . . twice!"
AKA reinforced the point with a hard poke of the pistol in the young
man's side.
Clearly frustrated, Officer Landon exhaled, angrily bent his head, and
got in.
AKA slammed the door and quickly sprinted back around to the driver's
side.
Thanks to the Dark Gods--that was the only way to explain the sudden
recollection that his driver's license was still lying on the pavement where
Landon had dropped it--AKA stooped and retrieved it.
He then slid back behind the wheel, pressed the automatic
door-lock--clack!--and quickly but carefully took off. But not before doing a
u-turn. Just in case the policeman had somehow thought to start the police-car
video. Young Landon may have pressed his luck by deciding to see if AKA were
DUI, but there was no reason that AKA should do the same.
As for Jorge the Honduran--or, to be more precise, the various and
sundry parts of Jorge the Honduran--well, there would be plenty of time to
dispose of him later, AKA decided. Autumn had come. The nights had turned that
distinctive fall cool a couple of weeks back. Hunky Jorge would keep just fine
in the trunk--for as long as it was going to take to deal with this new, and
totally unexpected, offering of the Dark Gods anyway.
