Sunset eased that big bitch into a Love’s gas station and threw it into park next to the filthiest pump there was. “I’ll get the gas,” he said. “You go inside and stretch those legs of yours. And for god’s sake, get a fucking cup of coffee for us both, won’t you?” I nodded and flung my denim jacket over my shoulders. I readjusted the little pin on my lapel—the one with the black cat on it—and jerked the door of the convenience store open with a fierce tug. Inside was the end result of nicely-dressed white men perched in faraway sparkling glass skyscrapers using mathematics and psychology to reverse engineer the base instincts of an American populace who wanted to be comfortable and have it all come easy whenever they felt empty and alone, which was every moment of their miserable waking lives. Everywhere I saw camouflage cowboy hats, hot-pink beer koozies, lighters shaped like handguns . . . flashing, shrieking, useless plastic garbage lined every aisle that wasn’t already crammed with cheese-flavored sawdust.
Aw heck yeah, man. I used to write these detective stories about two swingin dudes named Midnight and Sunset. I guess I’m gonna start doing that again!
I wrote like three of those dumb things. They were a lot of fun to write. One of them was based on a true story! My friend’s duck was savagely murdered in the night and I attempted to find the killer while high on acid. So I fictionalized it and had me a good ol time doing so.
Never did find that killer, though. Damn psycho is still on the loose.