The road winds, twists and turns. It runs over hills, down valleys and cuts across the arid flats like a scalpel, two lanes bisecting the deserts sandy body. He looks out the car windshield, knowing where the road will take him but not the night. His only reassurances are the comforting weight of the .45 on his hip, and the sound of the modified V8 as it roars down the road, the car as black as the night it rips through.
The engine roars a little louder through the pipes as he presses down on the gas pedal.
The Ghost of Tom Joad comes through the speakers.
Leather on leather, his holster creaks against his gun belt.
He doesn’t know how the night will end, only that one it will end.