“It all started with Redd, Doc. We were just sitting in my car at the time, an old Oldsmobile I believe. Some piece of junk or another Stinch talked me into buying from his uncle’s cousin up in Grapeshot. Anyway, Redd was there, telling me what she could do, the prices — kind of like you, Doc, ha. Screwing me over.”
“Yes,” said nonplussed Clyde from a nearby chair. “Go on.”
“Bj was the standard for the car, she said. Quick yet effective. The back seat and the others will be more, she indicated. I glanced in the back, realized I hadn’t cleaned off the seats from all those Burger Shot wrappers and stray fries and such. Damn Stinch and his junk food habits. You see, I’d just bought the car off his uncle’s cousin day before yesterday’s yesterday.”
“Wednesday,” Clyde clarified more for the reader than anyone.
“Yeah, suppose. Drove all the way up there with him and still had to pay 50 dollars more than what Stinch said he was asking for the old thing.”
“You mentioned Gold earlier. Color of the car?”
“Color of the *man*,” Frank Lynn corrected to his June-July-August therapist, soon to be replaced by Fremont in the Fall. “And the car. Everything gold about him, even the teeth.”
“Let me get this straight,” said Clyde. “You bought a gold car from a gold skinned man with gold for teeth.”
“Yeah. Midas kind of fellow for sure.”
“Sounds like a robot to me.”
Sunklands 