Two KingsC. Gregory Thompson
A body falls out of the sky, landing on the hood of my car with a metal-crunching thud. Whites of eyes, brights of teeth. Brakes screech, fast glances in the rearview hoping there’s no one behind to slam into me. I turn Marilyn Manson’s shrieking “Born Villain” off as the Ford LTD lurches to a stop on the shoulder. A mound of flesh lies outside the windshield, still, unmoving. Not sure if dead or alive. Blood smears, trickles, across the cracked safety glass. Arms twist in unnatural directions. Face looking in at me. Cold, staring eyes. This isn’t happening. Stomach, guts roil, nausea. Sweat prickles across the top of my head. I open the driver’s side door and throw up. I can’t be found with a dead body. Cannot. Can’t stay here, can’t be seen. What the f**k do
