Frank settled down out in the Valley. He hung his wild years on a nail that he drove through his wife's forehead. Sold used office furniture out down San Fernando Road; assumed a thirty thousand dollar loan at fifteen and a quarter percent, put a down payment on little two bedroom place.

His wife was a spent piece of used jet-trash, made good bloody Marys, kept her mouth shut most of the time, had a little chihuahua named Carlos that had some kind of skin disease and was totally blind. They had a thoroughly modern kitchen, self-cleaning oven, the whole bit. Frank drove a little Sedan.

They were so happy.

One night Frank was on his way home from work, he stopped at the liquor store, picked up a couple of Mickey's Big Mouths, drank 'em in the car on his way to the Shell station. He got a gallon of gas in a can, drove home, doused everything in the house, torched it. Parked across the street laughing, watching it burn, all Halloween orange and chimney red. Frank put on a top forty station, got on the Hollywood Freeway, headed north.

Never could stand that dog.