![]() ![]() She looked like she'd been somebody's groupie, back in the day. She was an old hippie chick somewhere in the human wasteland of her late forties, he figured. And now here came the fucking waitress again, her third swoop past in as many minutes. His sunglasses helped a little, but underneath them his eyes were tired. Everything was yellow and red and the sun was blasting between the blinds of the east-facing windows. Everything was too bright for him in here. He was a musician.īesides, he wasn't worth a damn before noon, and here he was at ten in the morning sitting in a booth at a Denny's restaurant just off I-35 at Round Rock, about twenty miles north of Austin. He wasn't a particularly good guy, nor a very bad one. His neck was going to grow six feet long and spikes would shoot out of his arms before he tore the room apart. ![]() But it would have to be done soon, because in another minute he was going to go off like that dude in The Thing whose alien blood bubbled and shrieked under the touch of a hot wire. Nomad decided he would have to kill the waitress. ![]()
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |