“OK, first road on the left,” Johnson reiterated. He handled the big car easily; he had driven
a crippled boy around in a custom van for nearly two years. The car’s sound system was excellent. Johnson’s sludge metal albums sounded
particularly crushing, even though the volume wasn’t so loud that the two men
had to yell to be heard. Johnson had
allowed Commensurion to select the album they listened to. He had done so based on the cover art. Hyena Matriarch’s Curse-Smitten Earth was his choice.
Its cover was an obscure Max Ernst collage of farts in the shape of
elderly snakes emerging from Emile Zola’s telescopic backside. Commensurion was digging a song apparently
titled “Cup After Cup of Your Photoelectric Sweat” when Johnson announced their
arrival.
“This is
it?” Commensurion wondered, peering through the windshield.
“This is
it.” Johnson pulled the car beneath a tree the width of a filling station
bathroom and shut off the engine.
