. No shi—I mean, no k**ding! Listen, get this Ryan back to the phone and pipe it into the baroness's office... No, we'll wait for it right here. And...uh, thanks." She hangs up. "Speak of the devil!" she says, grinning. "Cop over the Port Authority is on duty, swatting the flies off the runaways, when who shows up but Creep Cranston and Supercreep Eric and they spirit away some cornflower in the Buckmobile!" "Then the ceremony last night worked," Cynthia grins. And the three of them laugh. They. Perdition Gentlemen’s Club, Beelzebub’s Burgers, The Inferno Inn, Brimstone Tires. Exit 666, all lanes. “All lanes?!” I exclaimed, “Then it’s not a fucking exit, is it? Goddamn it, am I even on I-80 anymore? Of course not. No wonder there’s no fucking cars. Must’ve accidentally veered into an onramp when I missed that truck.” I pulled onto the shoulder, and took out my phone. No signal, of course. This was starting to feel like a Stephen King novel. I sighed, and rummaged through my glovebox,. More

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