I watched the crime scene tape go up. Not surprising. Route 66 Garage had history of that sort of thing.
Started going bad shortly after Jack Torrance opened the place back in 1916. A customer, tired of honking his Model A’s horn, went looking for Jack. Found him half eaten by a rogue King pickup truck.
Jack’s son, Nicholson, took over. He was mauled by a Stutz Bearcat 350. Grandson, Stephen, well, a Mustang dragged him clear ‘cross town.
Warned my boyfriend, Arnie, not to take a job there.
“Christine.” Oh, they’re calling me to identify the body. (word count: 98)