I remember the day me and Peoke got in his car and decided to for a drive to … somewhere. That was how we said it, each time. …Somewhere. That pause inherent in the destination, as if the travel itself imposed on the phrasing. We relished it, telling each other how much fun we would have.

Peoke was a slim motherfucker, too, fitting in behind the wheel while the seat was pulled all the way forward, like he was some 90 year old grandmother. His spindly arms stuck out all angles as he gripped the wheel and played at being a kid. “Vroom!” he muttered over and over, twisting the wheel back and forth and motor-boating his lips.

Thankfully he also had keys.

We started off toward Arizona, not sure where it was, really, but determined to find out. The country was only so big and if we drove in circles long enough someone was sure to have a sign up that said Arizona. It was, we decided, that simple.

We thought we were ready for anything. We told ourselves to expect the unexpected. Peoke held firm. I tried to.

Though we both gave up when we accidentally stopped to give Quetzalcoatl a ride. That’s about when things got really odd.

(To be continued? I dunno. Do you want it to be?)