Final Countdown
It was getting close to dark when we pulled Agent Amy’s Suburban into Skeeter’s driveway. I had the window rolled down on account of a truly spectacular fart I’d ripped a few miles back, the result of one bag too many of Lance Bar-B-Q pork rinds I picked up at the gas station when we got off the interstate. The smell of late summer honeysuckle wafted in the windows, taking the edge off my flatulence and reminding me what home smelled like. Skeeter’s Mini Cooper was flipped on its side, with all four tires slashed. The front door was clawed all to s**t, and the frame was splintered where something big and mean had come through it hard.
“Shit.” I muttered as I got out of the SUV. I grabbed Grandpappy’s sword and drew it, looking for any indication that Pop or his pack were
