**(This is an excerpt from “Waiting for Karl Rove” by Jeni Decker & Kat Nove. The book has over 600 FOOTNOTES, but for the purposes of this excerpt, they are in parenthesis.)

~Twenty-Six~

“Jeni, this is the worst idea since I rolled over in bed that night and said to South-of-the-Border, ‘Are you going to marry me or what?’”(My ex-husband’s family came from Monterrey, Mexico and are millionaires. Know what I got in the divorce? Can you spell J-A-C-K-S-H-I-T?)

Jeni turned on the blinker - about thirty seconds too late in my opinion - and eased off the highway into the rest area. (At 80 mph.) “You are such a chicken-shit. Consider this another adventure.”

“Another adventure? Sure why not? It’s not as if anything exciting has happened to us so far on this trip. I still have most of my motor functions and my spleen. (I didn’t expect that to last long the way Jeni drove.)

“Listen, Kat. I can drive in my sleep (Hadn’t she been doing that already? For the last 200 miles?) but you’re such a whiner about making sure nothing happens to your car, (Not to mention the aforementioned motor skills and spleen.) it’s best we stop for the night.”

“I’m not arguing that point. I’m arguing about where you’ve decided to stop.” I looked around at the rest area on the side of the highway where we sat parked next to a large horse trailer hitched to the back of a double-cab pickup. I lit a cigarette off the one I’d been smoking, looked out my window and squinted in the light provided by the squalid mercury vapor lamp attached to a twenty-two foot metal pole. The driver’s side door of the pickup read BAR-NONE QUARTER HORSE RANCH.

“We’re surrounded by truckers, Kat. What could be safer?”

“Gee, let me think. A mall Santa Claus’s lap? (Unless he happened to be a pedophile, and even then what’s he going to do with all those elves as witnesses?) My bed at home? A public library? The back seat of a police car?” (Where I predicted I’d soon be sitting because three years ago I made the mistake of joining a writer’s website – thenextbigwriter.com. It’s frequented by a high number of crazies, Jeni being the Crazy Queen of the Forums.)

She laughed. “You’re funny, Nove.” (If I’m not, this book will never be published, I’ll never be on Oprah and Jon Stewart will never be my BFF.)

“Yeah, I’m funny. And my corpse will be funny-looking once the cops piece it back together. If they ever do,” I added darkly. “Do you watch horror films, Jeni?”

“Not usually. I’m not about to let my kids watch them, and by the time I wrestle them to bed, I’m usually too tired to take a shit.”

I winced and ignored her three hundred and twenty-fourth scatological reference. It was going to be a long road trip. “Well, I do watch them. If they’re well-written, I enjoy them. I sometimes even like the cheesy ones. My favorites are loaded with lots of humor, like the Scream series.”

“Is this going anywhere, Kat? I need to pee and I think you might need to put some antibiotic spray on my butt.”

I took a drag on my cigarette and blew the smoke directly into her eyes to get her attention. (It seemed to. )“It is going somewhere if you’ll listen for a few seconds. You never stop talking.”

“Owww! That hurt, you bitch!”

“It was meant to, but that’s nothing compared to how being turned into a human centipede will hurt. Do you want to become a human centipede, Jeni?”

“Huh?”

“If you watched horror films, you’d know that horror doesn’t always happen in creepy old houses or on Elm Street. Sometimes it happens at rest areas on the side of a major highway.”

Jeni squirmed in the seat and pleaded, “Fascinating as this is, if I don’t pee in about thirty seconds, I’m liable to go in my pants.”

I rolled my eyes at her and said, “Fine. Let me fish my pepper spray out of my purse. No way we’re entering that restroom this late unless we have a way of defending ourselves.” (My spur-of-the-moment plan didn’t really include wasting my expensive pepper spray on a rapist or serial killer, but rather shoving Jeni into him and running like Marion Jones on steroids while he bounced off Jeni’s tits into the cinderblock walls. I call this the Trampoline Defense.)

We made our way along the well-lit sidewalk that led into the square building which housed porcelain relief for bursting bladders.(Why does everyone driving long distances buy Big Gulps at the 7-11?) After endless miles of a highway devoid of even a bush to squat behind, (The only time I feel genuine penis envy is when I have to pee in the woods or on the side of the road. Make something of that, Sigmund.) these rest areas became a weary traveler’s Shangri-la, Valhalla, El Dorado and Blue Light K-Mart Special (Clean up on aisle fourteen.) all wrapped up in a box with working plumbing.

Since Jeni’s need happened to be greater than mine for once, (The Remote Control Terrorist will find that the most unbelievable part of this entire book.) I stood watch at the entrance.(Readers need to think back to Jeni’s description of the white-trash Toyota – one of the rear windows is missing. Anything could crawl through that window – anything!)

When she finally came out, I took my turn, being careful not to touch the seat with my ass. (See the earlier chapter on my peri-rectal abscess.) After washing my hands, I joined Jeni outside and said, “Let’s walk back and forth in the light for a while. I’m used to walking two miles a day and my ass is killing me from being trapped in the car for so long.”

While we stretched our legs, I tried to explain my position. “I’m not blaming you for wanting to take a detour to see Roswell. (I absolutely was blaming her.) And it’s not your fault (It was her fault.) that we couldn’t get a room anywhere this late since every UFO nut job in the country has heard of something called reservations.(Jeni has no reservations whatsoever. Not regarding motel rooms or discussing her ass functions, anyway.) But if we’re turned into a human centipede, it will be your fault because I warned you.”

“Nove, have you been eating ‘shrooms again?”

“There’s only one way to eat a mushroom and that’s dipped in batter, fried and smothered in cream gravy. This method kills the slime. I won’t even order the loathsome things on a pizza, much less eat them to get high.”

Jeni giggled and asked, “What do you know about getting high?” (Here would be a good place in the book to wax philosophical about drug use and abuse, but Jeni won’t let me read her chapter about the titty bar until I deliver this one so I’ll save that conversation for the sequel.)

I ignored that comment.

“If you watched horror films like any self-respecting mother of two should, you’d know that rest stops like this one are feeding grounds for serial killers. And worse,” I added, giving her what I considered my best serious look.

Her raucous laugher sounded like the squealing of Wilbur the Pig right before Homer Zuckerman cut his throat and right after Charlotte spun in her web the message: KILL THE PIG. (The way I remember the story, Zuckerman jumped back to avoid all the gushing blood and stepped on Charlotte. That had to hurt.)

“Are you done?” I asked.

She gasped for air and with one last squeal nodded her head.

“Good. I’ve seen more horror movies than I care to because The Remote Control Terrorist loves them. (By love, I mean he stares at the screen in anticipation of gore and fast forwards through any conversations and/or kissing.) So I’m something of an expert.”

Jeni raised an eyebrow. “A horror film expert?”

“No, a location expert. Many victims are on road trips when fortuitously tripped over by serial killers.” (Fortuitous for the killer, not the victim.)

“In horror films,” Jeni said, trying to make a point about the difference between fact and fiction.(Trying is the best she can do when I’m holding forth.)

In a monotone voice (Which still sounded incredibly sultry and erection-causing.) I said, “Ever hear of any of these films, Jeni? The Hitcher, Joy Ride, Jeepers Creepers, From Dusk Until Dawn, Vacancy, Grindhouse/Death Proof, Psycho, Texas Chainsaw Massacre…”

“I’ve heard of most of them. Jeepers Creepers sounds funny. What’s it about?”

I shuddered. “It’s not funny. It’s not funny at all. It’s about this flying gargoyle thing that snatches (“Beavis, she said snatch. Heh-heh-heh.”) people, skins them alive and sits at a sewing machine, sewing their skin into something or other while the song Jeepers Creepers plays on an old phonograph player. ( I think that’s what it’s about anyway. Menopause Symptom # 27 – Forgetting movie plots.)

Jeni said, “That is funny. Now I’d like to see it. I’ve seen Psycho. But that one took place in The Bates Motel, not on a road trip.”

“It doesn’t matter that Norman Bates killed people in the motel. The point is, Janet Leigh would be a shriveled up actress with scarlet lipstick on her teeth today, if she hadn’t been on the road with her embezzled money.”

“Uh, Anthony Perkins didn’t really kill Janet Leigh you know,” Jeni said, giving me a look she probably usually reserved for the Bread Winner when he stepped out of the shower. (You know – the look that says ‘What was I thinking?’)

I stopped my pacing and gave her a dirty look. “I’m not an idiot. (Yes, I am.) I can tell the difference between fiction and non-fiction. (Even if many of my bookstore customers and a few of my snot-slinging employees can’t.) But here’s a fun fact for you. There have been over one-hundred and fifty convicted serial killers in the United States. (After their sons’ executions, I suspect some overprotective mommies still haven’t cut the umbilical cord. “Pookie Pie would have NEVER chopped off those women’s heads, Your Honor.”) No doubt you’re familiar with some of them. Ed Gein, whose life inspired the films Pyscho and The Texas Chain Saw Massacre. Ted Bundy. John Wayne Gacy, the Killer Clown. Albert DeSalvo, the Boston Strangler. David Berkowitz, Son of Sam. Jeffrey Dahmer.

But you might not have heard of these. The Dating Game Killer. The Alligator Man. The Eyeball Killer. Trailside Killer. Vampire of Sacramento. Giggling Granny. Werewolf of Wisteria. Gorilla Man. Even though he didn’t rate a catchy nickname, David Parker Ray killed approximately sixty women right down the road in Truth or Consequences, New Mexico. What do you think about that?”

Jeni blew smoke up in the direction of the autumn moon, briefly obscuring the killer’s face on its surface. (Which was a good thing since it had been creeping me out for several minutes.) “What am I supposed to think about it, Kat? Those convicted serial killers are dead or in prison, right?”

“Yep. But it’s estimated that there are between twenty and one hundred active serial killers roaming the country right now. Mainly white males between the ages of twenty and forty-five. That guy could be one,” I said, pointing to the trucker who approached the restroom. He looked harmless enough in his John Deere cap and green and black plaid flannel shirt, but I wasn’t fooled. (He could have a mutilated lot lizard in that big rig of his.) He gave us a puzzled look as he passed, but tipped his cap and said, “Morning, ladies.”

Jeni, who is a bitch of the highest order, said, “Good morning. You’re not a serial killer are you?” (This question is a prime example of why Jeni should watch horror movies. Serial killers never confess until have they have you tied up and the power drill is squealing louder than you are.)

The trucker gave us a nervous chuckle and said, “No, ma’am. Just your average Joe.”

“So, you’re a plumber?” she grinned.

“No, I’m a trucker. Uh, excuse me, ladies. Y’all have a good one.” He hurried into the restroom, glancing back over his shoulder.

“Nice guy,” Jeni said.

“Yeah, he seems to be. May I continue now?

“I’m all ears.”

“You’re all tits.”

“Go on with your delusions, Kat. I find them fascinating.”

“My point is that no victim expects to be murdered, just as none of the characters in those movies expected to be stabbed, bitten, run over, chain sawed, decapitated, or torn in half. Otherwise they’d have stayed at home. (And rented a horror film.) But the film characters’ misfortune began because they took to the road. And spending the night here with a broken car window, without a sawed-off shotgun and a S.W.A.T. team in the backseat is a terrible idea.”

“You’re overreacting to a hypothetical and highly improbable situation,” Jeni said, trying to fake me out into thinking she’s a rational human being. “There’s no way we’re getting killed by a serial killer because we’re spending the night here.”

“Not just killed. Turned into a human centipede.”

“You keep saying that,” Jeni said, right at the moment the trucker exited the restroom.

“What the fuck is a human centipede?”

The trucker stopped short and stared at us. Jeni batted her eyelashes at him and asked, “My friend here keeps telling me if we spend the night here, I’ll be turned into a human centipede. If you hear me screaming, will you come and save me?”

“Uhhh…well…ah…I’d sure like to, but I’m on a deadline and need to get back on the road. You’ll be okay if you keep your doors locked.” He scurried out of our sight and a moment later his truck roared to life and exited the rest area. (Now there’s a man who understands crazy when he sees it.)

I glared at Jeni. “Way to go. You scared off the only trucker here who isn’t a serial killer.”

She laughed. “I bet the next time he stops, he’ll be embellishing what happened. No doubt we’ll be described as black widows who flashed perfect tits at him in an attempt to suck his blood.”

“We don’t have perfect tits.”

“Hence the use of the word ‘embellishing.’ Jeez, Kat. Are you a writer or not?” (I am a writer and you can read my work at katnovian.com. It’s been a while since I mentioned it.)

We’d stopped pacing back and forth and Jeni had plopped her ass down on a decorative rock wall. (New Mexico tax dollars at work.) I placed my battered plaid sneaker on the edge of the wall and began doing stretches.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m stretching.”

Jeni lit another cigarette and said, “Why?”

I continued stretching my legs for a moment and then jogged in place, causing my tits to make an unattractive slapping sound. (I might need to reconsider my bra ban in case Jon Stewart wants to go jogging with me.) I finally stopped, lit my own cigarette and sat down next to her. ( I sit, I don’t plop.)

“A human centipede is three people sewn together.”

“What the fuck?”

“You heard me. Why do you think I keep going on and on about horror films?”

“Well, I didn’t want to say this, but I assumed it was because you don’t have the intellectual capacity to discuss anything of real significance.” (This from the woman who incessantly discusses the condition of her anus.)

Being the bigger man, I ignored her remark and said, “As I mentioned before, many horror films are based on real life events and serial killers.”

“So?”

“Well, there’s a Dutch director named Tom Six who wrote and directed the most revolting horror film ever made. The Human Centipede. Six is an AK-47 enthusiast who once said he gets a rash from too much political correctness.”

“So do I. What’s wrong with that?”

“You own an AK-47?” I asked. (Clearly being sarcastic.)

“No, doofus. I get a rash from too much political correctness.”

“Jeni, you’d get a rash from a baby’s diaper rash cream. (But I wouldn’t put it past her to mug the Gerber baby if she thought his diaper rash cream might be the solution to her ass issues. ) Anyway, can we get back to The Human Centipede?”

“Why not?”

“Many horror fans loved the movie. (I picture anyone who loves this movie never leaving his room in his parents’ basement and looking like Jabba the Hut existing on a diet of maggots and pizza.) But Roger Ebert didn’t even give it a star rating. Do you know what he did?”

“How could I?” she replied, smirking.

“He told his readers the review was not only a spoiler alert, but a public service announcement. Then he revealed the entire plot AND drew a diagram of the human centipede.”

“Oh, come on. I doubt it’s that bad.”

“Really? He said what happened to the victims is the worst thing he’s ever seen done to human beings.” (And he watched Hannah Montana: The Movie so he should know.)

“Worse than Hostel?”

“Jeni, the victims in this movie saw Hostel and begged the killer to do the disgusting things in that movie rather than turn them into a human centipede.” (Hostel sucked.)

I pulled my notebook and a pen out of my purse and began to sketch a crude drawing. After I finished, I shoved it in Jeni’s face. “There! There’s what’s going to happen to us if we spend the night here.”

She said, “What the fuck is that?”

“That’s what the insane German doctor in the movie created. He kidnapped two young American women and a Japanese man. He was a retired surgeon who specialized in separating co-joined twins. In the demented mind of Tom Six, this doctor had a hankering to attach people.” (A little hobby to pass the time in his retirement. More creative than crossword puzzles and less tedious than gardening.)

Jeni peered intently at my sketch. “Am I understanding this correctly?”

“If you think each person is attached by sewing mouths to anuses all in a row, the answer is yes. But it’s worse than that.”

“How could it get any worse?” Jeni said, clearly horrified.

“The psycho doctor also attached their digestive tracts.”

“No!”

“Yes! So that means the first person eats, then the digested food passes from his asshole into the mouth of the second person, then the third who eventually evacuates.” (Who knows where. Under these circumstances, it seems a toilet would be difficult to manage.)

“You saw this movie?”

“Hell, no! But I heard it from my corner while playing Peggle on the computer. The Remote Control Terrorist watched it.”

“And you live with this guy?”

“I did ask him after it ended if he got emotionally involved with the characters.” (Keeping my fingers crossed he wouldn’t tell me he wished he could be more like Dr. Crazytown.)

“What did he say?”

“He scoffed at me and said, ‘Of course not, it’s only a movie‘.” (Same thing he says about romantic comedies.)

“Why are you telling me this? I might have nightmares,” Jeni whined.

“Because I can’t believe a writer could come up with something so vile out of his own imagination unless he’s creating human centipedes in his garage or attic. Tom Six is a douche bag who must be destroyed for thinking up such crap. When a movie is made of our adventures, (Alternative title – Waiting for a Plot) I shall insist that, in this scene, he is played by Steven Seagal.” (Check out my Steven Seagal rant on katnovian.com.)

“Well, that’s a relief. I thought you were really worried about being turned into a human centipede.”

“Of course I’m worried about it. My luck, you’d be in the front and I’d be in the middle. With your ass situation, I’d rather go skinny dipping with Freddy Krueger.”

Jeni asked, “Is that one of your old boyfriends?”

I shook my head in disgust. “Come on, you pop culture virgin. Let’s get some sleep. If we wake up attached, I’ll be sure and say MMMUMMAAMMMM.”

We headed for the car and settled in. I waited until Jeni began her soft, ladylike snoring (Bitch. I have quality-of-snoring envy.) before I dug my pepper spray, rape whistle and cell phone out of my purse. The whistle was attached to a lanyard, which I placed around my neck, putting the whistle in my mouth for expediency in case Dr. Anal decided to make an appearance. Clutching my cell phone in one hand and the pepper spray in the other, I rested my head on my comfy feather pillow, while my eyes darted in all directions. I imagined fighting off a serial killer and becoming a heroine instead of an alleged terrorist.

It had been a long day and my eyes closed. Briefly. For a rest.

Either the gentle rocking or the urge to pee woke me up. I opened my eyes, instantly disoriented. Where was I? What was that slapping noise? I leaned forward and saw something on the hood of the car. The car. That damn Jeni had talked me into spending the night in the car.

My brain finally caught up with my body, and I realized what I saw on the hood of the car seemed to be a man. A tiny naked man. That would have been a good time to scream, but my vocal chords seemed to be frozen. The man looked familiar, with his wispy comb-over, bug eyes and bony shoulders. What did he have in his hand? A weapon? What was that thing? No. It couldn’t be. (Let’s see if the reader can make the connection between the slapping noise and a naked man with something in his hand.)

Even worse than him jacking off on the hood of my car (There! I made the connection for you. Happy now?) were the words he muttered. “Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. Sleepies. We must go. Yessssss. We must go at once. We wants it. We needs it. We must have the Precious. Yes, Precious. And then we takes it once they’re dead. Yes. Yes. Yes. Kill them both. My Preciouuuus.”

My mouth flew open and a creaking noise escaped. Gollum from The Lord of the Rings perched on the hood of my car. I followed his line of sight and discovered he stared at Jeni’s hand. Her wedding ring! His Precious. Holy shit! Gollum planned on cutting off Jeni’s ring finger. I had to do something and fast. (Peeing in my pants seemed the best option.)

“Jeni,” I hissed.

She mumbled in her sleep. “I’d – mumble- thank-mumble-Academy-mumble-Bait Pile.” (Jeez, even in her dreams she had an inflated image of herself as a director. BTW, you can see clips of this horrendous B-movie crap-fest on closetspacemusings.blogspot.com)

“Jeni,” I hissed again, beginning to sound like the anaconda that swallowed Jon Voigt whole. (Thank goodness.)

“Mumble – huh – whuh?”

Gollum, his eyes now closed, continued what looked like a losing proposition, considering the temperature hovered in the mid-thirties. (Think the Seinfeld shrinkage episode. )

I carefully leaned over and whispered in her ear. “Don’t make any noise, and get your camera.”

She finally woke up and I saw her eyes widen as she looked out the windshield. She took in a deep breath and her tits inflated in preparation for letting out a scream which might get us killed. I slapped my hand over her mouth. (Perhaps a bit too hard, but camping out was her idea.)

I whispered again. “Get your camera, and on the count of three, we’re going to jump out of the car and catch this fucker. He can’t weigh more than one hundred pounds. He’s naked and doesn’t have a weapon.”

She nodded and asked, “Do we jump out of the car on the count of three or right after the count of three?”

“Damnit, Decker. This isn’t a reenactment of one of the Lethal Weapon movies. You’re not Danny Glover and I’m not Mel Gibson. (Because she’s not a middle-aged black man and I don’t hate Jews.) This is life or death. This guy is muttering about killing us.” I gave her my best I-told-you-so look. I hoped she could see it in the dim light.

She nodded again and reached for her camera, expertly turning it on without removing her eyes from Gollum. “Ready?” I asked. She gave me a thumbs up. “One – two – three.”

We jerked the car doors open and leaped out like professional serial killer catchers - graceful as big cats. Leopards. Tigers. (Actually, I tripped over the curb and went down on my left knee. Onto a rock.)

“Motherfucker!” I screamed, jumping up to face my killer. I was just in time to see him falling backwards off the hood, dick still in his hand.

“Get him, Kat!” Jeni shouted as she cautiously approached him from the driver’s side of the car. We got to him at the same time, even though I limped through the pain in my knee. With my mind, I willed Jeni to get my heroics in the shot. She did.

My pepper spray in hand, I gave him a hard kick in the ribs with my right foot, thereby causing my injured knee to collapse. He screamed, jumped to his feet and began to run. Fuck pain, I thought, like a world class athlete or submissive sex slave. I took off after him, adrenaline shooting through my body and unfortunately, sabotaging my brain.

“Take this, you asshole!” I screamed as I pressed the button on my pepper spray. Then ran right through the noxious mist. (I guess I thought it would magically chase him down, pass him up and make a U-turn right into those buggy eyes of his.)

“AAARRGGGHHHH!”

At the time, Jeni didn’t understand what happened, but after she watched the instant replay, she laughed so hard she peed herself. (I’m getting her adult diapers for Christmas this year.)

When heroines have serial killers on the run, they don’t let them go free to kill again. I ignored my streaming eyes and redoubled my efforts to catch the nimble Gollum.

One of us (Probably Jeni.) let loose a loud RPF (Rocket Propelled Fart) and the diminutive Gollum abruptly turned to face me, threw his hands up in the air and screamed, “DON’T SHOOT! PLEASE DON’T SHOOT!” He backpedaled while yelling and if he hadn’t tripped over a rock, he would have still escaped, no matter how fast I ran. (About half a mile an hour.) He turned over on his back when I reached him and this time I aimed the pepper spray directly into his eyes. Jeni caught up right as I wondered what to do next. (I should have stood guard with my duct tape on my wrist.) When in doubt, go for the ball sac, I always say.

“Keep an eye on him, Jeni. I’m going back to the car for the duct tape and your lipstick. If he tries to get up, kick him again.”

“Kat, this is no time to start wearing makeup, although after we finally get to a motel, I’ll be happy to show you how to apply it. You could use a makeover.”

I screamed at her, “The only over I could use is for this cursed trip to be over! I TOLD you a serial killer would get us!”

Jeni looked down at the pathetic man groaning on the ground and said, “I think he’s just a pervert.”

I stalked back to the car and shouted over my shoulder, “Quit thinking! I mean it.” I dug around my travel bag until I found the duct tape, then fished Jeni’s lipstick (And twenty bucks.) out of her purse. It took me less than two minutes, and when I got back to Jeni and Gollum, he was still clutching his balls and moaning. Good.

I kneeled beside him, both knees popping like a movie theater popcorn machine, and punched him on his ear. “Whatcha do that for?” he screamed.

“Because I wanted to,” I said, my voice cold and hard. “Why were you on the hood of my car?”

“My cat ran away. I thought I saw him jump in your car.”

This time I punched him in the nose, causing him to remove his hands from his balls to cover it. Blood instantly began to seep through his fingers. I nodded to Jeni, and without missing a beat of the filming, she stomped the heel of her sneaker into his nuts. (If this author thing doesn’t work out, she might make a good River Dancer.)

This time Gollum passed out from the pain.

“Did I kill him?” Jeni asked, not seeming all that concerned about the possibility.

“No. I need to tie him up before he comes to or we might wish you had.” I rolled him over with my foot and began to generously use the duct tape to bind his hands behind his back. I also bound his feet. While doing this, I told Jeni what he said about killing us.

“He either thinks he’s Gollum or likes to role play. Either way, I think he really planned on killing us.”

“Who’s Gollum?” Jeni asked.

“Never mind,” I muttered. (If she doesn’t watch horror films or Lord of the Rings, what does she watch – paint dry?)

I pulled her cranberry red lipstick out of my jeans pocket and began writing on his stomach. Jeni zoomed in for a close up.

I MAY BE A SERIAL KILLER

I MAY BE A RAPIST

I HAVE A PUNY PENIS

ARREST ME!

“Come on,” I said. “We have to get out of here.”

“What about him?” Jeni said.

“Who cares? Someone will find him and call the cops. If we call them, they can trace us and we haven’t found Karl Rove yet.”

“That’s the spirit, Nove! Let’s head back to Roswell and find an all-night diner. I could use some pancakes.”

Roswell. I looked to the skies and shuddered. On this road trip, next stop would probably be an alien abduction.

Oh, well. Anal probes, here we come.

***

**(Waiting for Karl Rove is available in paperback and Kindle on Amazon.com)