The stuffy confines of the El Dorado smelled strongly of Camel filter-less cigarettes and Taco Bell extra-spicy tacos.  He should probably crack a window, but Harry found the warm pungency familiar.  Soothing even.  And the quiet comfort was the only thing keeping the grey matter in Harry’s skull from oozing out his ears.  That, and the old Peter Green tune playing quietly on Bessy’s radio.
        The song was one of the musician’s lesser-known early numbers that predated his Fleetwood Mac days, and the fingers of Harry’s right hand instinctively plucked air in perfect time with the warbling guitar notes that stretched and retracted like warm taffy. 
        There were only two medications that had the least affect on the constant throbbing in his frontal lobe.  And because the whiskey bottle had run dry two hours before, the music was currently the only treatment option at his disposal. 
            Harry let the blues seep into his pores and managed to relax his neck muscles enough to allow his eyelids to slide shut when a sharp rap sounded on the passenger window.  Harry’s index finger went from picking out an imaginary ‘e’ sharp to caressing the smooth, cool metal of the .38s trigger without any conscious decision on his part.

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