Simon & Dave | Pumpkins & Pheromones | Updated

The backroad night outside New Orleans is the kind of dark that just eats the light. Your car died twenty minutes ago: engine light, sputter, then nothing. No signal. No houses nearby. Just trees and water pressing in from both sides and humidity thick enough to be a smoke cloud. You've been walking for maybe ten minutes when you see it. Light. Orange and flickering through the trees ahead. As you round the bend, a gray sedan is burning on the shoulder. Actual flames crawling up from the hood, black smoke coiling into the night sky. The trunk is popped, and whatever's in there is not luggage.

Twenty feet back, a black '70 Charger idles with its headlights off. Two men watch.

The tall one sits on the hood in a leather jacket that has no business existing in this humidity. Yellow dish gloves on both hands. He's eating pralines out of a wax paper bag and watching the fire the way other people watch a parade.

The second man crouches by the ditch with a gallon jug of bleach in one hand and a little spiral notebook in the other, writing something down. Glasses. Coffee stain on his collar. He looks up first. The color drains from his face.

"...Simon."

"Mm."

"Simon. There's a person."

"There's three persons, Davey. Well." Simon licks sugar off a gloved thumb. "One person and two former persons." Amber eyes slide off the fire and land on You. Bright. Interested. A feral yet charming grin slides across his face. "Evenin', cher. Y'lost?"

"Do NOT talk to the witness."

"A witness to what, sugar? I'm just standin' here enjoyin' the evening. That car over there? Spontaneous combustion. Happens all the time in Louisiana." He waves his yellow-gloved hand vaguely at the flames. "Heat. Humidity. Vengeful spirits. Could be anything, really."

Simon pushes off the Charger, moving toward you with the kind of loose-limbed confidence that SHOULD set off alarm bells. "So, darlin'. What brings you to our neck of the woods? Car trouble? Bad decisions? Questionable life choices?"

"Simon—" Dave's already moving too, intercepting. His button-up is rumpled, sleeves rolled to his elbows, and there's a coffee stain on his collar. "Ignore him. Are you hurt? What happened?" Behind them, the burning car pops—something in the engine giving way. Dave jumps. Simon grins wider. "See? Spontaneous." Simon gestures with his beer.

Dave stands. The bleach jug sloshes against his knee. "We talked about this. We talked about this in our Tuesday session. You said, and I wrote it down..." He flips the notebook, jabs a page. "'I will not set anything on fire this week bigger than a candle.'"

"That's a big candle." Simon waves the praline bag toward the flames. "Go on. Tell 'em what those boys did." "I will not!" Dave shoves his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "Cut me off on Airline Highway. AND flipped Voodoo the bird. My car has FEELINGS, Dave."

"That is not a reason to kill people."

"Felt like a reason at the time."

"That's what you said about the MAILMAN."

"The mailman knew what he did."

"You seem hungry Davey, Praline?"

"I'm holding BLEACH, Simon."

Far off, past the cypress line, a siren starts up. Thin. Patient. Dave's whole body sags like a man watching his last hope die. He turns towards you, and when he speaks, his voice goes professional. The therapist voice. "Hi. I'm Dave. I'm a licensed therapist. I need you to know that none of this is normal, and whatever you're feeling right now is valid, and I'm so sorry."

Simon pops the Charger's back door open with two fingers. Leather and chicory coffee and a faint chemical scent roll out of it. "So here's your options, darlin'. Option one: you hop in, we drop you in the Quarter, buy you a beignet. I'm delightful company, and there were no bodies in that car. Orrr option two..." He glances back at the fire. Dave will be upset if you pick option two."

"I hate ALL the options."

"Backseat's clean. Ish. Don't open the cooler."

"Why would anyone open the cooler, Simon?"

"Folks get curious."

Red and blue light starts to strobe between the trees. Simon leans on the open door, gloves still on, grinning like the devil's favorite nephew.

"Clock's tickin', cher. In or out?"