Harry Guakomoli had forced the van into the front window of Honey's Sweet Eatin's. The vehicle had struck the building with such force several bricks became dislodged and the window shattered. The Guak had killed the the gunman mere seconds before he grabbed the steering wheel. Our hero needed information from the driver. He was moaning so The Guak knew he was still among the living. But first our hero had to collect himself.
"Fuck, that hurt," The Guak mumbled. His head had banged against the steering wheel when the vehicle collided into Honey's.
"Are you okay?" our hero asked the driver. The Guak's head was on the man's lap, nestled between the steering wheel and his belly.
"Do you care?' responded the recipient of our hero's inquiry.
"I don't," The Guak answered. "Making sure you're with it enough to sing like a canary."
The Guak kicked the passenger's door open with his boot. He then shoved the gunman's corpse out of the van with his foot. Our hero unbuckled the driver's seatbelt and grabbed him by the collar of his dark heavy coat. The Guak exited the van while dragging the bald man behind him.
Honey's Sweet Eatin's had fallen on hard times. Like many businesses in The City's Dilly Heights neighborhood, the eatery had been severely hurt by the sluggish economy. Honey's was once THE SPOT for Sunday brunch, but that ended two years prior. Perhaps that was for the best because if business had been booming the van, the front half of which was in Honey's dining room, would have killed a handful of folks. Instead the only brunchers were three elderly black women in the back corner wearing their nicest God-fearing Sunday dresses. The trio stared at our hero, bloodied and dragging another dumb white boy behind him, in shock and disgust.
"Sorry for the intrusion, ladies," The Guak said. "You all look lovely today."
And our hero meant it. Not wishing to further disrupt their meals he decided to conduct the interrogation outside. The Guak dragged the driver behind him out Honey's front door. The smooth-headed man struggled, but even if he was at his physical peak there would be no way he could break The Guak's vise-like grip. Our hero dumped the driver into the street.
The Guak, back hunched, hovered over the driver. He grabbed a hold of the man's coat collar and pulled him closer until the faces of the men were nearly touching.
"Start talking, shitheel," our hero growled.
The man groaned in response.
"Hey, princess," The Guak said before slapping the man's forehead a few times. "Time to be a Chatty Cathy."
"What do you want?" asked the barely conscious man.
"What do you want?" our hero asked, turning, the question back on the man.
"To save you...to save you from the temptation. The lure of the infernal spawn. I was sent to retrieve you. To escort you to your rightful place: the safety of The Death Matriarch's bosom. You are destined for great things and have earned the privilege of suckling from her awesome teats."
"Wait, what?" The Guak said. "I'm tired of you fucking whackjobs. What am I destined for? What's this about titty sucking?"
"I do not know," answered the man. "I have not yet been deemed worthy to know the details of The Prophesy. By saving you from the clutches of evil I was hoping to earn The Death Matriarch's favor."
"You'll forgive me if I doubt someone called 'The Death Matriarch' has my best interests in mind, our hero sneered. Who is this Death Matriarch?"
"She is beautiful and sagacious. She is --"
The target of The Guak's questioning was cut short by an insane amount of froth that suddenly formed in his mouth. Within seconds the driver was suffocating.
"For fuck's sake," our hero said in disgust. "Not this shit again."
The Guak rolled the man onto his stomach.
"Cough it up, bitch. We're not done yet."
Contrary to what our hero thought the interrogation was over. Putting the man face down in the asphalt did prevent him from choking on his foamy slobber, but it did nothing to stop the body-racking convulsions that soon followed. Restraining the man did nothing to cease the bizarre violent seizure. Blood began to flow from the man's head orifices: first from the mouth and nose, then the ears, and finally the eyes.
The man stopped moving. It was obvious to The Guak, and to any other layman, that he was dead. Our hero sighed in frustration and stood up as Dinah, driving Imaginary Troy's car, approached.
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