My heart is beating cracks through my ribcage as I sink into the lightly stained velour backseat of the LTD. The pair of guns tucked into my pants make for an uncomfortable ride, so I toss them on the floorboard. Leaning back again, I reach over and roll the window down. In front Peter sits quietly as Sal drives with one hand on the wheel and one arm leaning out the window.
With eyes closed, I decide to be the one to point out the unconscious elephant piled in the trunk. “What are we going to do with him? He ain't dead you know.”
“I figured,” Sal says. “What did you do to him?”
“Beat him over the head with one of those big golden trash can things, kicked him a few times, and smacked him upside the head with his gun.”
“Turn about's fair play.”
“That's exactly what I said.”
“When did he throw up on himself?” Peter asks.
“Oh,” I say, slightly embarrassed. “That was me.”
Peter is silent for a moment. “Really?”
“Considering I don't usually run a half marathon after a full marathon of drinking, I'd say my body reacted in a perfectly natural way.