"Whar ya go'n?" Billie Bob hollered as Shane was closing the door behind him. "I....I'm gonna go," but Billie Bob cut him off, "Ya aint go'n out da der in yer skivvies, get back in her an sit down on the bed. I'm mak'n coffee and we need to make a plan."
"Ima ger an boost some wheels, drank some of dat coffee o'er yonder, it'll wake yer ... up! We gotta get'er move on," Billie Bob ordered as he/she hiked up her jeans, hugging her sinuous buttocks and thighs. Shane slowly emerged from the the bed half naked just as the door slammed shut behind Billie Bob, further exacerbating his monster headache. He slugged down a cup of gritty, tepid coffee which reeked of chicory. "They know everything....They don't want YOU," his wife's warning replayed in his head like a broken record. "I gotta get outta here," the thought, slowly masking his headache, eventually reached a fever pitch.
Shane grabbed his shirt off the bed and opened the motel room door to the bright, piercing light of the early morning sun. His mind droning with the exhortations of his beloved wife, he took off running behind the motel, barefoot, jeans unbuckled and shirt in hand. He didn't look back until he reached the far end of the field behind the Corn Cob Motel, he only briefly glanced back, "So long old friend/cousin/brother/lover, be well," he whispered under his breath as he crossed the boundary to the unknown.
