Commensurion, dressed as one of the Fromme Emperor’s
treasury agents (which he most certainly was not), turned to the other
man. “When’s that?”
Johnson pondered, glanced at both his watch and the
enormous, stylized, Avon-cosmetics-inspired clock on the wall.
“In about
fifteen to twenty minutes. I’ve got to
grab all the remaining sausage balls, take a piss, and tell your sister
goodbye.”
Commensurion
nodded. He too had to tell his sister
goodbye.
Half an hour later Commensurion was sitting beside Johnson in the Coca-Cola cowboy car Johnson had borrowed from Mr. Shovelmate, heading down a narrow country road bordered by nothing by darkness.
Half an hour later Commensurion was sitting beside Johnson in the Coca-Cola cowboy car Johnson had borrowed from Mr. Shovelmate, heading down a narrow country road bordered by nothing by darkness.
