Blondy saw the Repo Man pull up and park half a block down the street. He watched him sidle up to the 'vette and try the key in the door lock, smile in satisfaction, then start up the sidewalk toward the apartment door with the Claim Papers. He'd have to make a final collect attempt before he took the car. Blondy grabbed a handfull of wrinkled bills off of the kitchen table, a battered hooded UCLA sweatshirt, and slid out the back door. He heard the door bell ring through the side-yard window as he softly padded around and up to the Stingray, eased the door open, twisted the key and felt the 390 throttle up. He laughed at the chubby Repo man jogging down the sidewalk to shout something unintelligible but probably obscene at him.

Blondy gassed up at the 7/11 and grabbed a Coke and a Polish Sausage. He headed toward the State Highway, balancing the pop between his knees, the hot dog clenched in his teeth as he shifted and steered, and he popped a copy of Steve Earle's Transcendental Blues into the cassette slot. He sat at the stop sign for nearly three minutes, trying to decide whether his life should go left or right, when he saw the approach of a rather bizarre caravan led by a red RV and...wait! The woman at the wheel was...Yeah! I remember now! And that beat-up POS Chevy rumbling along like distant artillery fire sure looked familiar...Hell yes.

Blondy tagged a left and swept the vette into the caravan.