Mark Henry_Amanda Feral 01 Read Online Free PDF Page A

had driven too far south, outside of my comfort zone. This would make safe hunting impossible without a flip map (I can see it now on the bookcase in my office); as a rule, I must know my exits. One wrong move and you’ve driven down a rural road, pulled over, and munched out on some tweaker, behind a shed covered in blue tarp, reeking of kitty pee. Quick note: meth-heads are horrible for the skin, and the aftertaste is icky. Why not just munch on a camera battery?
    As I scuttled into the far right lane, a hideous lump of blue metal on wheels tore past and cut me off. My vision was clouded by a plume of noxious exhaust.
    “I swear to God, Wendy,” I said, pointing at the sky blue and primer grey Datsun B210 slowing in front of us now. “Can you believe this shit?”
    “I know; I totally hate that.”
    “Fucker!” My voice shook, and I noticed my jaw tensed to match the pressure of my alternately clenched and grinding teeth.
    I wasn’t disturbed so much by the near-collision—I’d learned to tolerate that kind of rudeness 16 . No, I was referring to the dingy-socked foot resting on the driver’s side dash. That early ’80s piece of shit was the driver’s couch; the dash was his ottoman. There was no way possible for that car to be comfortable enough to warrant kicking back. It was a rolling wreck. The driver was likely enjoying a loose spring up his ass.
    The sock fabric was grayed and spotted with clumps of hair, dust bunnies and food stains, like a used Swiffer pad. The collected filth told the whole unsanitary story at the end of a single wiggling foot. It conjured images of rusty trailer courts, dusty dollar store knickknacks, and fleas nesting in green shag carpet.
    “It just has to be dingy, too. Like he’s never picked up a bottle of bleach in his life.”
    “Are we supposed to be impressed at his dexterity?” Wendy grated her nails with an emery board, fashioning them into points. Functional, as well as elegant. She looked past her lethal extensions, eyeing the other car. It was unusual to see the driver of a car perpetrating this particular social offense. Usually, it was the narcoleptic passenger, fresh from a feeding at the Old Country Buffet troughs.
    “I’m sure we’re to notice the general size of it and make an association to his penis.”
    “We’re gonna eat this asshole, right?” Wendy was locked on target, and assholes were totally on the list. In fact, let this be a warning: there are those among you who view exposed vehicular feet as an invitation to dine. Don’t let a need to be lax while driving be your death sentence. Actually, that goes for passenger feet, too.
    “Well, you can have the asshole, but, yeah—” I stopped in mid-thought, remembering the dirty feet, then quickly added, “Heads.”
    “Fuck you! You got heads last time. Besides I know what you’re thinking and those feet were nasty.”
    “Okay, okay, split down the middle then and I’ll get our next one on my own.” She sighed at this and seemed to relax into the seat. Wendy appreciated nothing more than an easy kill, particularly if I was the one doing all the work.
    “Fine.”
    Without another word passed between us, I accelerated to match our boy’s pace and pulled around on his left to line him up parallel to Wendy. He was twenty-two or twenty-three at the oldest, scruffy around the collar but tan (or was that dirt?). In tandem, we began the stare 17 and he sensed it immediately and sold us on the most adorable of expressions, boyish fear piggybacking on horny excitement, a deadly combo for him. The boy looked over and, obviously interested 18 , agreed to pull off in response to Wendy motioning to the exit.
    I nudged the car in behind his, and we proceeded onto a street with a large three-digit number, 320 th or 270 th ; anyway, something with a zero on the end. All the good streets are in the double digits, so I knew we were firmly in the slob-burbs. At the first parking lot, we made our