You really think they ain’t coming back?
How do you know, bro?
What’d I say? Don’t bro me.
Sorry. But how do you know?
Cause it’s three in the fucking morning, Ray. No one’s coming.
Well, who leaves their door wide open then goes to bed?
How should I know? They probably got shitty kids that don’t close doors, I don’t know. Who cares? Hop in and unlock it.
Ok, let’s—oh! The fuck’s that smell?
I know, right?
Jesus. Smells like a burning cat.
Straight up skunk vomit.
It’s like a zombie trout rotting inside a moldy pumpkin.
Who lives like this?
Savages, Ray. That’s who.
Spaced-out fucking soccer moms who don’t—whoa.
There’s like a hundred parking tickets in the glovebox. Look at this shit.
Oh, that’s crazy.
Yeah, I’m losing money just sitting next to them.
Word. They probably got more warrants than you, bro.
Jesus Christ, Ray!
Do I look like your fucking bro?
It ain’t about sorry. You check the visor yet? What CDs they got?
Lemme see…Kidz Bop…
Oh, come on.
Oh, hey! They got Taylor Swift.
Of course they do. Grab that for sure.
Whoa. Merit Ultra Lights? Didn’t think they still made these. Jesus, bringing me waaay back…
Hey! Check it out.
Huh. Where was that?
Right here in the door thing.
They keep a flask in the map pocket?
It’s called a map pock—
The fuck, Ray?
It’s fucking schnapps or something!
Fine, but don’t go spitting it every—
Who drinks this shit?
Sad dads and—
Shit’s nasty, bro.
Why don’t you just get in back and see what’s what.
Mmm. At least they got some change in the cup holder.
The fuck? They’re all stuck to the bottom, like—
—they’re glued down or something.
Hold on, Ray. I’m working on these quarters—
You gotta see this, Dad. You gotta see this now.
The fuck are all those?
Pretty sure they’re diapers.
Yeah. Fucking dirty diapers.
All balled up and full of shit.
But there’s so many of them.
Thirty at least.
Maybe a hundred.
Who lives like this, Ray?
I don’t know, bro. You tell me.
Look at all the car seats.
What about them?
Look at them. They’re all baby seats.
What? Why they need four of them, though? You don’t think—
Yeah, I do.
Who does that?
We need to get out of here, Ray. These people are twisted.
Who has four?
They’re going to kill us if they catch us. They don’t give a shit.
They’ll probably chew us up and then spit us into their demon kids’ mouths.
Ray, I shit you not: they will feed us to their fucking kids. Start moving.
I’m scared, Dad.
We have to go. Right now.
You see them? Are they here?
I don’t know, Ray! They’re probably coming. Go. Go!
What was that? Did you hear that? Oh God!
I don’t want them to eat me, Dad!
Just leave the Taylor Swift and RUN!
Illustration by Scott Lenhardt