Ted had not been back to his dad’s house in a while, but he returned to fill the gray panthers in on Marty’s condition. In the meantime, Tango Sam, seemingly the most vital of them all, had died. His heart exploded in his sleep. Death was one random motherfucker. Ted imagined Tango Sam at the Pearly Gates or, better yet, at the gates of Hell, saying, “Lucifer, Prince of Darkness, Lord of the Underworld, Satan himself, you look red and tremendous, loan me fifty.”
Ted let himself into his father’s house. It felt now like a museum, a mausoleum. He wanted something from there, though, something curated from the past. Something he had come for. But first, he would cut his hair.