A man drives his car
He bends forward over the wheel, peering into the storm of night. He strains to see through the steady chop of wipers almost keeping up with the drenching rain. The sound of them bothers him, too remorseless
He rubs his broken nose, wiping fresh blood
Three million, three fucking million, we shouldda asked double that
He checks the GPS, four more fuckin miles
then reaches blindly for the radio, punches it on, flips through stations, hearing only the ghostly bow scraping words from a broken cello
- envy the - *crackle*
- the dead - *crackle*
- dead their - *crackle*
- their swift - *crackle*
- swift passing - *crackle*
- passing for - *crackle*
- for centuries - *crackle*
-centuries you'll - *crackle*
He snarls and punches the radio, hard, and it shuts up. He rubs his nose again.
He doesn't smell the flood of seaweed.
He doesn't hear the slow rend of iron from the trunk
He hears only the roar of surf, to his left, behind him
He doesn't feel the tentacle uncoil from behind his seat, til it passes up and wraps around his left wrist, jerking hard.
He feels the crash of the car into deep water
He starts screaming.
He doesn't stop.
He'll never stop.
