I don't know how long I'm just sitting there, looking into my own dead, glassy eyes as they stare back at me from my own dead, dumb-fuck face. If anyone ever thought it would be impossible to look smug after choking on their own swollen esophagus, they'd never met Jase.

The panic sets in. It's the moment I realize what a son-of-a-bitch I am. There's no remorse or crisis of faith, just the terror of being caught. As if killing a man were the same offense as breaking a neighbor's window with a line drive when you were five.

The dumpster in the corner of the fenced-in patio will hide the body for a while. Of course, I have a convenience seldom afford your average murderer.

I start by stripping Jase's clothes off, followed by my own. Then we switch, just like the fairy tale. The smooth cotton twill of his fabric feels amazing against my nervous skin. Much better than the poly-blend bullshit I'm trying to manhandle his dead-weight into. When I'm done, I do a double check on the contents of my new clothes. The pocket inside the liner of my blazer holds a couple gram baggies of coke. The chinos now carry two wallets, two cell phones, and best of all, a key emblazoned with a Ferrari logo.

Thinking ahead, I slip my wallet into the jeans I put on the dead man. If the cops are looking for an easy ID, they'll find it. Just some idiot with an allergic reaction and drugs in his system. Ho-fucking-hum.

The bartender with the crazy story about twins will be a little harder to dismiss. Her being the only witness may make her a person of interest. Might even go as far as getting charges hung on her. But she's destroyed her own video evidence to the contrary, so fuck her.

I grunt as I heft the snuffed bastard up onto my shoulders. Damn, I should have remembered to open the dumpster before I hauled him up here. It's a clumsy dance as I manage to lift the lid and slide him into the container. The task is made even harder by the fact that I'm trying to keep one eagle-eye on the door, ready to bolt at the slightest motion. Jase makes a muffled thud as his body hits the remaining garbage. Empty bottles clink as they are shifted by his weight. Every noise sends a shudder through my frayed nerves. It takes a moment to realize that my teeth are chattering.

In slow motion, I close the lid as soundlessly as I can. The temporary tomb of one Carl Bixly. Rest in peace, buddy.

I wonder if I should chuck my phone, the last physical lifeline to the man I was. My anchor to Lisa, our shitty apartment, and our unborn child. I'm in no state of mind to make decisions this big, back-to-back. Get out first, worry about details later.

Sitting around thinking over options seems like the best way to get caught. Tam could still walk through that door at any second. I stop thinking, grab the top of the fence, and hop over. Even in mid-flight, I notice the sun glinting off the hood of a cherry red 488GTB. The car gives a cheery chirp when I hit the button to unlock it, and greets me with the clean smell of leather as I slip into the driver's seat.

The sound as the engine turns over is something closer to the roar of a jungle cat, warning any other vehicles on the road that the king has arrived. I don't even have to adjust the rear or side view mirrors. They've been tailored to my height and posture. A few glances back at the bar show no signs of life. No crazed bartender screaming for the cops. No firetrucks coming to break down the doors, or posse being rounded up.

Before I've even blinked, I'm sitting at a red light a block away. The Ferrari in idle sings a symphony of combustion. Rachmaninoff in aluminum pistons, marked by staccato and precision.

Green light.

Shit, I never checked to see if there were any cameras on the inside of the bar. It would make the crazy waitress' doppelganger story believable.

Green light. Or was it red? Fuck, I can't remember. I have to be more careful if I'm gonna make this work. The threads on my new designer clothes are starting to fray with every creeping question. Like if Carl died of allergy related asphyxiation or a drug overdose, what the hell is he doing in a dumpster? Should have just left him on the patio.

Red light. I blow past it anyway.

Co-fucking-caine.

No more of that bullshit. Eyes on the road. Damn, now I'm doing twenty miles an hour over the speed limit. How the fuck am I supposed to look at the road and the dash at the same time? This thing must have a cruise control. Clumsy, numb fingers probe buttons. One sprays fluid across the sleek windshield. The next one turns on the radio, a bass-heavy banger so loud I almost dive out of the car in a moment of fight-or-flight.

Nevermind. I'll drive with my feet like a plebe. I have no idea where I'm even going. I could go anywhere. What do I want?

There's the Centurion Card, but I may be limited on uses before they call to confirm an identity over extravagant purchases. The wheel of the Ferrari says I may not really have to worry about that. Still, disposable income would be nice for when the shit hits the fan.

Cash. Now. I wonder what bank Jase uses. I dig the wallet from my back pocket and flip through the contents. The Centurion isn't his only credit card, but I finally find the debit. Wells Fargo. I think there's one over on Reese Avenue. Behind the debit card is something that makes my eyes go wide.

My head bumps the roof when the low-riding sports car grazes the curb.

"Fuck!"

Lights flash behind me. Double fuck.

I can make it through this straight, I just have to act like I've been here before. Everyone's gotten a ticket at some point in life. Easy-peasy.

I pull into the closest parking lot. The policeman exits his cruiser and walks up to the Ferrari with that notorious swagger they must teach in cop school. I roll the window down as he approaches.

"Can you turn the music down, sir?"

Not a good start. I reach for the volume control with measured movements. Instead of turning it down, I turn it off. Hope that earns me some brownie points.

"License and proof of insurance."

I saw the license when I was looking through the wallet a minute ago. I didn't see any insurance card, so it could be in glovebox or the console. I only had one drink, but I can feel the alcohol and drugs flowing through my system. Every choice is life-or-death. That's probably hyperbole. At the very least, the wrong choice could warrant some tricky questions. The baggies of coke in my liner pocket feel like boulders. I choose the glovebox.

Bingo.

I hand the officer the documents. He retreats to his vehicle without another word. He's back there running Jase's numbers for forever. We mark the passage of time by trading glances in the rearview mirror. Even though it's tinted, I still look away when his gaze meets mine. My heart is beating so fast I'm sure the cop can hear it. Surely it will drive him mad, like some kind of Poe protagonist. Finally, he returns to my window.

"I pulled you over because you drifted from your lane and ran over a curb. Have you been drinking Mister Kimmel?"

"No sir. I just got startled when I turned on the radio. I forgot I had it up that loud."

I wonder if he can smell the alcohol on my breath. I'm trying to counter that by taking a tone of deference and throwing in a 'sir' when I can. Extend the tongue for maximum boot-licking. Nothing gets their little tin star dicks harder than an acknowledgement of authority. I'm pretty sure he's buying it.

"I'm gonna write you a citation for obstructing traffic." He scribbles into his yellow pad, tears out a ticket and hands it to me through the open window. "You'll see you have a court date for a month from today at the second precinct courthouse, or you can pay the fine any time before that."

The cop leans in close. Whether to conspire with me or to aggressively let me know that he knows, I'm not sure.

"Keep your eyes on the road and have a nice day, Mr. Kimmel."

Then, he walks away.

When I roll the window up, the heat in the car is unbearable. Whiskey and bile rise up the back of my throat, making my cheeks puff out before I quickly swallow it back down. I take a deep breath before slowly pulling back onto the street.

The bank on Reese is only two blocks away. There's some burnout smoking a cigarette next to the walk-up ATM. I sit in the car, pretending to fiddle with dials and make phone calls, waiting for the cocksucker to leave. Instead, he fires up another after flicking away the first expended smoke. I don't feel like hanging around all day, or trying to find another Wells Fargo, so I buck up and get out of the car.

I pass by Mr. Loiterer, who emanates that specific loser smell of weed, Nag Champa, and menthol tobacco. I can feel his eyes tracking me through his greasy, mop-top haircut as I walk to the ATM.

No time for paying extra attention to shitheels, I've gotta figure out Jase's PIN code. I slip his debit card into the machine and push the touch screen until the sequence brings me to that all-important question. A four-digit sequence of numbers that could mean the difference between living the high life for a few days, and getting away scot-free.

I try 1-2-3-4. The ATM beeps softly at me, twice.

Shit.

Fumbling through the wallet to find Jase's social security card, I pray that he was just enough of an idiot to disregard the advice that one should never use the last four digits of their social as a PIN. It's on the fucking letter they send out with every new card, for Christ's sake.

The social is in a fold. I slide it out and punch in the numbers 8-8-2-5.

Beepbeep

Incorrect code. The machine's screen blinks at me to remind me that I have one more try before the system locks me out. The burner behind me sweeps the dirty hair from his face and chimes in.

"Try 6-6-6-9. Get it?"

He makes the devil sign with his pointer and pinky fingers, puts them to his chin, and flicks his tongue suggestively between them.

"Yeah, I get it."

Ignoring him, I turn back to the ATM. One thing sticks out. Jase was obviously a man of conquests, and there's a strong feeling that his PIN is connected to... something. I glance at the Ferrari's license plate. It reads 'RICHERDNU'. Even after passing on, I'm amazed by the depths of this man's assholery.

Those combinations of letters could convert to numbers through some code. Maybe the code is the year of the model. Maybe it's the year he graduated. So many maybes.

It comes to me like revelation. I take Jase's phone out of my pocket. Fuck, it's one of those fingerprint jobs, but I know you have to push in the code whenever the phone restarts. When the lock screen comes up, I can see the overlay of four smudges on the numbers. I'm lost in these nesting dolls of passcodes. Would he use the same PIN as an unlock screen?

It only takes two configurations to unlock the phone. I flip through his contact list until I find 'Playdough'. The last four digits of her phone number are 2-7-4-4. Different from the phone unlock code. Do or die time. I choose the weathergirl and press the corresponding buttons on the ATM.

The machine asks another set of options, one of which is withdrawal. I breathe a sigh of relief and take out the maximum amount of $2000. Then I carefully place the debit card behind another. A card imprinted with the silver silhouette of a nude woman and reads, 'Aphrodite's Den'.

Jase's phone is still unlocked. I flip it to the video app, where the lovely Miss Kalos deepthroats eternally, and stroll over to the grease-ball smoker.

"Hey, man. Check this shit out."