Excerpt: ?

The old Chevy started with a belch — or was that him? — and found its way out onto the main road.

Ouch. Screw the bar, and screw neon. Screw this steering wheel, too. Driving through town was clearly not going to work, so Horace swerved off into the back country roads as soon as he could. It'd take longer, but at least there was less traffic, and fewer lights. Oh, lights. He switched his on.

Just at that moment, another set of lights whirled to life behind him. “Aw, crap,” said Horace aloud. “Crap it. Crap it all.” For a few moments he clung to a scrap of hope — weren't cop lights usually red and blue, not green and purple? — but a siren was a siren. Crap crap crap. He pulled over onto the narrow and deserted shoulder of the road.

Okay. Gotta think. What had he heard about sobering up? Finding a handful of change on the floor, he threw it all into his mouth. Something like that. It was worth a shot. He allowed himself to feel smug as he rolled down his window, but then he caught a glimpse of the woman approaching.

“What!” he shouted as the large, curly-haired woman from the bar leaned through his window. Two slimy nickels plopped into his lap, but she didn't seem to notice, despite being much closer to him than he thought police usually came. He angled backward in alarm.

She was reasonably pretty, now he saw her from the front, and wore an attractive shade of lipstick. Actually, he found it singularly creepy to see a pair of lips that luscious and red on a cop who was clearly on duty. Her eyes were obscured by a large pair of very dark sunglasses, to similarly eerie effect, and her nostrils flared open. She remained stationary for several seconds, hovering in front of his face.

Is she smelling me? Horace thought wildly. He held his breath, wincing as the remaining coins clinked together in his mouth. He was starting to taste them, and it was not pleasant.

Finally, she withdrew slightly and opened her mouth, but instead of asking him to step out of the car as Horace expected, she raised a wrist near her mouth and vented a long, splintery hiss, followed by two short barks. All over Horace's body, his skin twinged as if all the hairs had simultaneously gotten whiplash.

“You are under arrest,” she said then, her voice low and sultry and luxuriantly pleased with itself, “for fraud, kidnapping, and conspiracy — and attempted murder, if I can wrangle it. Grab your ears and prepare to be tractor-beamed, roach bait.”