It was fine, really. She didn’t actually need a working car, and she sure as hell didn’t need that son of a bitch to be her boyfriend any longer. But she did need a place to live.

It had started out as a fairly normal Saturday, as Saturdays go. Coming off another night shift in the hotel laundry, blinking and grimacing into the daylight as she emerged into the parking lot. She had a ritual, you see – face the sun, drive to Starbucks, flirt with the barista – a butch redhead with a wicked grin – read the paper, then go home and shag her man into the mattress. Saturdays were good days.


She discovered the remains of her car on the side street where she’d parked it, a mere shell of it’s former glory. Well, glory might be a strong word for a barely held together 1966 Ford Mustang, but it was her baby and it hadn’t gotten her into and out of trouble more times than she could count.

She couldn’t help but feel that it was some kind of omen of things to come. Turns out, she was right.

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