“Want some?” The hitchhiker inquires, pointing a meat-stripped bone at the man in the chair, who is practically no more than a shell of a body.

He slumps to the side so his pork pie hat falls off, exposing close-cropped hair in a receding pattern. His eyes regain focus for a moment, though he can look only vaguely in the direction of the hitchhiker. He answers by slightly amplifying his gurgle. A froth of tiny white bubbles crests over his bottom lip before falling in a gooey string to his shirt.

“Ok, more for me then.” The hitchhiker takes a finger of the whipped potato/collard green concoction at the side of the plate. Whatever it is, it tastes of pure pig lard. As hungry as the hitchhiker is –and the buttery smell of food only intensifies this hunger- he can’t stomach another mouthful of the tepid slime of chicken fat. There are plenty of beer bottles around and he takes a swig from an almost-full one. The room temperature suds do an adequate job of chasing the heavy slime of animal fat out of his mouth and into his stomach. He finishes the bottle with no problem and reaches for another.

There’s a piece of soggy corn remaining on the plate. He takes a bite. It’s pure mush, cold mush, and requires a full swig of beer to get down.

“Jees-is! Even these veg’bles taste like lard. How’re these niggers s’posed to eat this shit, day in n’ day out.”

The hitchhiker says as much with a disgusted look. He could have said it out loud if he wanted. The only other person in the room is miles away, from the looks of him. All the girls are out front for a final number. Even if they were here, he would have no problem saying it.

“These people have th’worst food ‘maginable. They should be told as much.”

The hitchhiker changes back into his clothes without properly drying off. This causes the fabric to stick to his skin, and the dirt streaks down the armpits, neck and chest of his shirt turn to a muddy brown. He thinks of how messy he had gotten this morning. Luckily, none of Paula’s blood got on him, but there was the mud from lying in wait behind a bush. It was getting so late, he started to worry she may never come home; or worse yet, that he had been given the wrong address. Then, just before one a.m., a weary figure appeared and stumbled towards the bungalow. The hitchhiker thought, that couldn’t be Paula. She looked so much gaunter and…he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. The way she slouched as she reached for the handrail leading up the front steps and stuck out one timid foot: she had somewhere along the way lost her pride, the zeal that made a fiery teenager turn against her parents, especially her overbearing father, and go with a criminal in the first place.