The computer was melded with the Caddy's systems. Slim left the pumps to refill Duroc's tanks by themselves, and tapped keys on the forecourt terminal. The pain would go away soon, when his mission was discharged. The demon was stirring, restless, and the blood was still seeping. Under his black coat, Duroc pressed the pad to his wound. Japs 'casionally, but never no Yurrup-peens." We don't git many folks from Yurrup in these parts, nossir, not never. You Frenchy fellers must sure like yusselves to go round grabbin' yer own titties all the time. "I mighta guessed frum the way you got yer hand in yer jacket like that there Napoleone Boney-party feller on the teevee.
"Yurrup, huh?" said Slim, exposing mainly rotten teeth in an approximate grin.
"Ro-jay, huh? You from N'Orleans way? Lou-easy-on-Anna?" He was going to die soon, and the name would not mean anything to him. "My name is Roger Duroc." The man might as well know. The demon needed to be bathed in blood at all times. A few hours ago, the numbness had worn off, and now he felt as if he were driving around with a flat-bladed knife between his ribs. The pain in his side was almost intolerable, but he kept it to himself.
His belly wobbled under denim like a double pregnancy. Whoever nicknamed him Slim was about thirty years out of date.
He wore a baseball cap with the team logo obscured by oil, and had a name-tag on his multiply-holed bib-overalls. "Just what kinda ack-cent is that you got there, mister?" asked the gasman as he jacked into Duroc's car.
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