The wheels on my suitcase squeak as the hostess leads me to a booth, while I juggle all the stuff I can carry from the van: a suitcase, a box, and one dead guy. The hostess pretends not to give me side eye, secretly debating if I’m a runaway or a fugitive. Her finger is just itching to dial the authorities, convinced that reward money somehow has to be involved. True, I am underage and was brought here against my will by an older man in a van, from which we had to confiscate human remains that we’re transporting across state lines, in order to protect mechanics who are known for aiding and abetting criminals, since we were rammed from behind by a pothead clown who tried to bribe us. I admit—on paper, this doesn’t look good.
In reality, this is just another day in the late-night bizarro It
