
How can it be. The headlights. Literally, lights on our heads. And Randal, whose house it is, asking himself who these fucking people are. The cars keep coming. Each engine is like another stab after the body's already gone cold He's thinking of the neighbors and how each new idling must be another slipknot for their REM sleep.
When morning, with bodies sprawled and damp with dew, comes, he'll hold a hankerchief over his face like a veil from some other culture. The door will thwack behind him. He'll say, you bastard roosters, you tangles of shit! Then he'll invite them all in for brunch. Something good, afloat in grease.
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