The drive was a batshit crazy I-want-to-scream tensionfest. Alan made it in six hours. Vegas was supposed to be fun. Like Hell it is. Maybe if the Devil –- in this case, the beloved Mrs. Alan Johnson — isn’t there. You could say that their trip went badly. You could also say that the Grand Canyon is really just a little crack.
“Really Alan. Do you have to drive that fast? Why do you insist on getting us there dead. Slow down. I swear to God, Alan. You slow this car down to the speed limit or I will get out and walk!”
Alan gritted his teeth and drove a little faster. Funny, the Devil swearing to God like that.
When they got home, his wife hurried to the bathroom and Alan hurried to the garden. In one of the far corners he started to dig. Alan didn’t want to hear one more damned time about Gamblers Anonymous, or about Alcoholics Anonymous, or any of the million other Anonymouses that his wife so-lovingly suggested. He had a bad night at the tables, tha