He drove his car like a bat out of hell, and he deserved to die.
Clint Banks was a man who had a fast car, and he drove it as though the devil was on his trail.
He killed more than one animal that way, and this evening, his reckless driving cost him his life.
I heard the crash around seven, and by the time I reached the site of the accident twenty minutes later, Clint had already gasped out his last.
He had been racing along North Road, chasing his own headlights and following the curve of the stonewall, the thin divider between Cross and Gods’ Hollow.
I sat down on the wall, lit my pipe, and contemplated the scene before me.
Clint was twisted in his machine, pinned in place by the steering column. He hung limply from his seat, goggles knocked askew and blood dripping in ever-slowing drops from his mouth. One eye was missing, and most of his teeth were embedded in the steering wheel, which lay at the base of the wall.
It seemed, from what I could gather, that one of the creatures had attempted to cross North Road back into the Hollow and that it had done so at the most inopportune of moments for both itself and Clink Banks.
That it was one of the monsters he had struck, and not some animal, was undeniable.
A man’s suit, gore-splattered and sopping wet with the creature’s black ichor, was spread out around the front end of the ruined machine.
As I enjoyed my pipe, a pleasant thought crossed my mind and brought a smile to my lips.
Clint would have seen a man crossing the road, and his last thoughts would have been mired in the belief that he was dying a murderer.
And all because he liked to drive fast.
Yes, that was a pleasing thought indeed.
Still grinning, I smoked contentedly and made my way home to the farm.
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