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The Breeze blew into San Junipero in the shotgun seat of Billy Winston’s Pinto wagon. The Pinto lurched dangerously from shoulder to centerline, the result of Billy trying to roll a joint one-handed while balancing a Coors tallboy and bopping to the Bob Marley song that crackled through the stereo.
The demon had been wired since he had eaten the hitchhiker the night before. The guy must have been on cocaine or speed. Why did drugs affect the demon when poisons did not phase him? It was a mystery.
“There’s a city ordinance against eating an elected official without a permit. May I see your permit, please?”
Often a tale that started out as a one-beer anecdote would become, in the retelling, a three-beer epic (for Mavis let no glass go dry when she was telling a story). Storytelling, for Mavis, was just good business.
“Don’t you just love Magic Fingers?” it said. Then it drove the claw though Billy’s brain.
