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The  door to  the  bus opened  and a corpulent  man  with
            small, dark eyes called out to me. “Excuse me, pal, but I was
            wondering if you knew where I could find a decent garage?
            My jalopy’s on its last legs, wouldn’t you know. This is a new
            route to me and I’m not quite up on the lay of the land.” The
            man’s eyes studied me, an intense calculus burning between
            his ears, fast and lethal. He tried too hard not to stare at my
            father, who protruded from my back, sealed away in rags.
               I  withheld  a  response  until  my  stare  entered  his  blood
            and coursed through his body. My voice came out low and
            full  of  gravel—it’d  been  ages  since  I’d  cause  to  use  it.  I
            placed my gaze within him, severing his concentration. “I
            can take a look if you’d be willing to bring me closer to my
            destination. I’m heading north.”
               He tried to match my stare, but my eyes only devoured
            him whole. He winced and pretended to shield his eyes from
            the  sun. After  he  regained  himself,  he  accepted  my  offer.
            “You got yerself a deal, mister. While you’re working on
            the engine, I can stretch my legs a bit. I’ve been wandering
            these back roads forever. I could use a walk and a cigarette.
            By the way, the name’s Grimes.”
               Mr. Grimes committed to his ruse, which was perfectly
            fine. Should he attempt my murder, the innards of the dying
            bus would make a fine gallery. The area I traveled was a
            notorious feeding ground for bandits and killers. The law
            was thin  where the  shadows of the  Great  Darkness were
            thick.  The shunned locale  was pleasant enough, and the
            murderer was a pleasant if predictable distraction.
               The bus had nothing specifically wrong with it—just a
            few plugs and wires that needed adjusting. It was simply a
            part of the man’s story to lure in victims—though I could
            tell it wasn’t an altogether normal piece of machinery either,
            which was a delightful surprise. But as for its more mundane,
            mechanical aspect, it was rather sound. It had certainly seen
            better days, but the gurgle and roar of its straining engine
            were to be expected, given its age. I played along with the
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