In the 1960's it had been a bustling gas station, filling the eager bellies of American muscle cars and family sedans more closely related in aesthetic to Ohio Class ballistic missile submarines than the Toyota Corolla. When the interstate opened, the traffic on the old highway dried up, until one last drop of gas was pumped into the tank of a brand new little blue 1982 Toyota Tercel, which would still be running 20 years later, enduring as long as the gas station itself had, a Japanese tortoise looking back for it's American hare counterpart left napping somewhere in about 1993.

A Japanese immigrant had bought the gas station property and opened Honest Abe's Classic Used Cars. He was named for the Japanese author, not the American president, but with his unfortunate choice of adjectives he'd doomed himself to cognominal mispronunciation, and by 1998 had accepted his new name even if he never embraced it. Shortly after this rectification with American ignorance, Abe died of a heart attack, like his refusal to excuse the cultural insensitivities of his customers had expelled cholesterol in spiteful glances, and without them the plaque built up, the clot stuck, and a doctor explained that Acute Myocardial Infarction was just a fancy name for heart attack instead of just saying heart attack in the first place. In different circumstances, infarction would be a funny word. The last moment a violent spasm of white hot pain, Abe managed to shout the proper pronunciation of his name, but nobody was around to hear it, so in his eulogy the tired old priest offered, “Like his namesake, the great American President, Abe was a man of integrity taken before his time.”

Rommel, of course, didn't know any of this, but if he had he would have felt certain sympathy, and would have joined in the halle-fuck-you chorus of everybody who was ever misunderstood.

Honest Abe's Classic Used Cars had been bought by a more typical used car salesman, but retained the name the dead Japanese man had given it. With a glance around, Rommel realized it was a misnomer in another sense. The Ford Probe was in no way a classic car. The Probe was a soulless, uninspired lump of machinery, like the designer had taken modeling clay, sculpted it into a vaguely car-like shape before becoming bored and returning to the waiting embrace of solitaire on his computer. It rivaled in blah-ness everything Buick made from 1990 until well into the new millennium (there were many Buicks for sale throughout the lot, once owned by career middle managers with wives who'd once been pretty enough but put on the extra forty pounds during pregnancy and used it as an excuse to stay that way. Every one of the past owners played golf on Sunday afternoon after going to church and paying less attention than their kids, who'd been allowed to bring dolls and toy cars because the Word of God is important, but not as important as keeping spoiled brat offspring shut up until after the sermon when, God willing, an opportunity would present itself for an inconspicuous early exit. “That was a nice Gospel,” she said. “What? I was wondering if the weather was supposed to hold out long enough for us to get in the back nine.” “Do I look fat?” “Of course you look fat, now be quiet. I'm trying to visualize my swing.” “Where are the kids?” “it's not like we can't make more.” “But that'll ruin my figure.” “Haven't we already covered that?” )

Rommel leaned against a Ford Focus (a car that defied the definition of classic in both design and vintage), and waited.

The doors of the old convenience store, now showroom, flew open with exuberance greatly exaggerated, and a salesman strode brazenly out. He wore a simple golf shirt. The polyester made so famous by the profession had finally been abandoned by used car salesmen around the turn of the century in favor of less conspicuous garb. But this guy oozed the same sleaziness represented visually by the synthetic fabric, so that it seemed a mist of cheap suit hung about him, dripped out of his pores in a sheen of liquid shyster.

Jericho Right glided out of the holster and shot the salesman. He collapsed, and a crimson pool of hidden charges flowed out of him, staining the gas station parking lot like the dripped oil of a thousand cars pushing well past the 3000 miles between tune-ups.

“Well done,” said an icy voice from behind a 1996 Nissan Quest (sadly the most classic car on the lot).

Drausinus stepped into the open. His dark hair had grown long, stringy without looking unclean. He wore a black trench coat, and in the middle of all the black floated his ghostly pale face, smoothed to newborn newness by the lack of worry possessed (or dispossessed) by those who are supposed to be dead.

“What the fuck are you supposed to be,” asked Rommel, “The Crow? Angry Goth kid? The second coming of Sting in the WCW?”

This last wrestling reference was lost on Drausinus, who in his past life had been too stuck up to watch such lowbrow entertainment, even out of curiosity.

“You know who I am,” said Drausinus.

“Then let's get this over with. Tool up, if you're gonna.”

“What makes you think you can do what Death could not?”

“Don't get me wrong, I love Death like family, but he can be a lazy ass.”

“Then shoot.”

Rommel hesitated.

“You're curious,” said Drausinus.

Rommel smiled menacingly.

“I torture animals,” said Drausinus. “I sell drugs to children.”

“What am I? Mr. T? Sell them what they want. You ain't that evil.”

“Then shoot.”

Rommel holstered JR. “I don't think so. Not today.”

Drausinus yelled, “Shoot!”

Rommel walked away.

Drausinus yelled again, “I'll live forever, you know.”

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Next: Rommel: A Christmas Story