FOXZ ON THE RUN: A HARD DAY’S FLINT - Chapter One
“Fetch aft the rum, Darby!”
I am probably the only guy I know who knows whose last words these were. As what surely must be some kind of cosmic reward – or punishment – for being Earth’s sole receptacle of this critical factoid, I, a humble announcer, am driving on a two-lane highway in the moonlit wilderness of Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, sole conscious inhabitant of a car containing two snoring rollergirls and one snoring Pomeranian.
