Mr. Smither retrieved his shotgun, cracked it open and inserted two new shells, then snapped it shut. Stuffing extra cartridges into his pocket, the two hobbled up the stairs. Mr. Smither kept a finger on the trigger as the muzzle of his shotgun led the way, cautiously conducting a room by room search. Mrs. Smither crouched behind her husband with a hand on his shoulder, peering nervously around him. When they entered the bedroom Sandy had used, Mr. Smither stopped so suddenly that Mrs. Smither bumped into him. Ropes were tied to the four bedposts and stretched on the mattress, pointing to the center of the bed where the blindfold, gag, and chloroform lay.Mr. Smither looked right, and then left, and then slowly walked towards the bed, almost on tiptoes. "What the... ?" the old lady yelled when she saw her husband's shotgun fly across the room. Then she saw her husband's feet leave the ground, and then he crashed to the floor, groaning as he grabbed his back. Mrs. Smither took a step. . ?"Who indeed, I thought disjointedly. Son of a gun."Do you know what else I've done?"He shook his head and I filled in my life's story, short a couple of details. Like Griff. Only, Cory didn't have Griff then, did he? The other ones then. I also held back on the Rambone too, only shit, Cory hadn't bought that either. I'm messing up my story here. (Read Riding the Rambone if you want to know what I'm talking about.) Still, Ricky was stunned."In the road?" he exclaimed. It took a moment to register what he was freaking about."Twice," I reminded him. "One night after the other. I did it four times in all, and never got caught."This is from Riding the Rambone too.When I was sixteen, I went for a joyride in my mother's car. They were gone for the weekend and it was Friday night. I knew this road, way out in the country (White Ground Road), which might have been in West Virginia. It was miles long, twisty and turny, and totally deserted. I stopped where power lines go overhead. I had.
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