I’d Offer You Moral Support, But I Have Questionable Morals

PJ, the satyr, clippity-clopped into the machine shop grinning. Inside, tendrils of smoke drifted out of the trunk of a Pontiac. A pair of legs stuck out from underneath. “Buford, what’s smoking?” Or who?

“Other than you?” was the muffled response.

PJ tossed his cigarette aside and took a whiff--definitely burnt hair and skin. Not that he was a connoisseur, but once you’ve smelled it, you don’t forget. “Something happen while I was out?”

The clang of metal preceded a curse, and a calloused hand shot out from under the car. “Hand me the torque wrench.”

PJ offered a series of tools until the hand withdrew. He blew on his singed finger and tried another tactic. “I’d offer you moral support, but I have questionable morals. So, I’m just going to say, if you need to get rid of a body, the trunk of a car is not your best option. You remember last time.”

After getting no response, PJ popped the trunk. Inside sat Alley, the Hellcat, grooming himself beside a pile of glowing embers. PJ extracted a yellowed tusk and several horny spines from the ashes. “That warthog demon come back around bothering May?”

“Why? You see him?” Buford rolled out from under the car.

“Nope.” PJ threw the remnants over his shoulder. The Hellcat squinted at him, its eyes flashing red, as Buford climbed to his feet.

“Alley, did you incinerate another rat?”

“Sure looks that way.” PJ winked at the Hellcat and lit another cigarette.