Dane took another well-aimed pump at the car. The iron pipe splattered headlight glass all over the curb.

"Good fuck!" I sputtered, "What's wrong with your freako eyes?"

"I'm sick. Some sort of crow disease. Can't be helped. Hand me that roll of tape." He pumped his fist while taping diapers to the antenna with his free hand, reeling to some invisible unholy orchestra. Probably electro. Probably some sort of depeche mode shit zonking around in his gourd. His eyes bugged yellow and I knew he had finally gotten news that yes, it was cancer, and yes, it was hereditary. His dad would probably laugh, knowing that his son had destroyed his car in retaliation for the dirty genes. If he hadn't been sick too, he probably would have shit a chicken and ripped his son into quarters.

"Jeeeeeeeeezus! I wonder what we can get for these doorhandles."