So there stood Night Train and Thunderbird, near the end of the deserted, fog covered street. It was twelve and the party had completely disappeared: the bonfire had been extinguished and the dunes abandoned, leaving the two alone on the asphalt roadway with shoes full of sand. Night Train leaned out the driver's side door, hunched over and cradling his cell phone to his ear.
"T-Bird, You've got to hear this....its Wild Irish Rose...and..."
Suddenly he breaks out in a burst of laughter, pressing his cupped hand to his mouth.
"Shit man...its the police....they're after her.....oh man.....shit......"
Thunderbird leans forward in an attempt to hear the message just as Nighttrain again pitches forward in another paroxysm of laughter.
"oh....im saving this on the archives...this is too good....i gotta somehow get this on the site..."
Nighttrain holds up the phone and Thunderbird puts it to his ear as the documentation of Wild Irish Rose's encounter with the cops is replayed.
"Thats crazy man....damn....thats crazy...."
Thunderbird first notices the two approaching headlights through the mist and he slowly closes the phone and hands it back to Nighttrain. The headlights swing wildly in concert with the crazed career of the car itself and by the time it cuts through the veil of fog, the guys see its an old battered station wagon. The wagon decelerates and comes to rest before the two of them. The window rolls down. Within the messy cabin, leaning over the well worn steering wheel is a thirty year old man with a dirty beard and blood shot eyes.
"Do you fellas know a good place to fish round here?"