O, it’s a decent old sled after all. It’s a Honda.

Vincent nodded sagely. Cars were whipping past ten feet behind them, whicking the late autumn rain into mist in their wake.

Two hundred and twenty thousand miles on her, I’m not going to lie to you but she runs for a’ that. Windows work, brakes’re okay, not great, but they’re okay. ‘Bout half done, maybe. Tires’re new, just put them on myself, o, say a month ago. When we got it in, so they haven’t been driven on any. Good tires, too, good for the rain, good for the snow if you do a lot of skiing. You do much skiing?

No, said Vincent. I don’t like skiing.

O, well, there’s some that do. Some of ’em. Heckuva deal, impound, you know? Can’t sell it for more than what’s owed. So you’re gettin’ a good deal, even, a better deal than you’d get, because I could sell this for more if I could.

Hrm, said Vincent. He kicked at the tires experimentally. What about the monster?

O, the monster, said the salesman. You can see that, can you? It was a tired voice. Yes. Still a heck of a deal.

Vincent thumbs through the Crowley Blue Book. Says here, he began.

O, damn, you’re one of them. Hellfire. Fine, fine, blue book value, and I hope you get eaten by the damn monster.

Well, as to that, said Vincent. I don’t ski much, no, but there’s things I’m good at.