He did not look good. Giovanni glistened, for one thing. People ought not to glisten, not darkly in the night, not like that. For another, Giovanni’s insides were out, and much of his outsides were gone, trailing down a length of pipe—a long metal rod, rebar, I remember some man calling it—sunk into the ground alongside the guardrails. The rebar stuck straight up as a monolith, stood rampant as a needle, gleaming with a dull metallic evil in the light of the pale moon. Impaled, Giovanni hung on the rebar, glistering ominously. Dying, Giovanni had become the scarecrow that he’d always
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