30.

I puffed on my cigar in silence, taking special care not to look at the gory mess between Grod and me. Finally Grod spoke up, "All right kid, let's go."

He led me to a bright red Ferrari which from behind looked brand new, but from in front looked like it had been in a high speed collision. I fell into my seat, and took one last glance at the wreckage left behind, and wondered how much more of it I'd see in the future.

"Yeah," Grod said as he started the car. "Sorry about all that shit. I just get really fucking pissed. I mean, most of the time, people just do what I tell 'em to. 'Cause if they don't, you know, they usually end up dead." He took a reflective draw on his cigar. "But you're different." He patted me paternally on the shoulder. "At first I thought you just didn't get it, but now I see. I could use someone like you."

Not sure how to respond, I just nodded vaguely. I was smoking the cigar pretty quickly, and my head was beginning to get fuzzy with the nicotine. Grod put the car in gear with an expensive sounding clink, and put the pedal down. The Ferrari gulped down the highway, as well as a couple of signs when Grod took his hands off the wheel to pull the label off his cigar.

"Listen," said Grod as his car drifted off the road, "I have some personal business that I need to take care of, and you've probably earned a break. I'm going to take you home, and you can stay there for a couple weeks."

When I initially left Grod, it hadn't occurred to me that the alternative was to return to the world I had escaped. I probably didn't even have a place to live, anymore.

Grod apparently noticed my lack of enthusiasm. "What," he demanded, "You don't want a vacation?" I shrugged. "It's not all fun and games, you need to write my book. I didn't buy you that damn computer-machine for nothing."

"All right." I tried to resign myself to returning home again. Visions of my empty apartment, the local bar, my dad's mocking face flashed through my mind. Grod rolled down his window and threw the cigar end out, fishing another new cigar out of his robe pocket in a fluid motion.

"Here, hold onto the steering wheel for a minute." I leaned over and grabbed the top of the wheel as Grod looked for his lighter, then set the tobacco stick aflame. Once it was going, he put his knees against the bottom of the steering wheel, trying to steer the car off the road. I struggled to keep my grip.

"Hey, cut it out," I said, not feeling up to two car crashes in a day. Grod laughed and batted my hand away, taking over the controls.

"C'mon Paul, you gotta lighten up. This is what I mean, see? Vacation'll do you good."

"Yeah," I finally admitted, "I guess so."

"Anyways," Grod said in a brighter tone, "Did you see me blow that guy's head off?"

"Which one," I asked.

"Either."

The clips had been burned into my brain somewhere, and I hesitated to answer while I replayed them in my head. "Yeah," I concluded, "pretty badass. Doesn't say much for your marksmanship, though. I mean, I could probably do it at that range."

Grod glared for a split second, then laughed, "You asshole. How about you try lifting a man up with one hand."

As if a light switch had gone off in my head, I suddenly felt more at ease. Sure Grod had almost gotten me killed, but the fact of the matter was that I was still alive. Grod smiled from ear to ear when I asked, "Mind if I bum another cigar off you?"

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