1986 Suzuki Samurai

An hour after dawn, Dobie and Victor heard music coming from the entertainment center.  Dobie’s sizeable home theater had come to life, with music that could only be Lexi’s. 

She had opened the blinds to let the early morning light in, and pushed the couch back so she had a large dance floor.  Dobie’s first impression, not an unkind one, was that she danced like a stripper.  She was still wearing the red camouflage skirt and mesh shirt she’d had on the night before.  She had pulled her hair into a high ponytail, which spun madly as she danced.

Dobie was sure she was aware of them the moment they entered the doorway, but she didn’t acknowledge them for most of the song.  Then she seemed to see them for the first time, and called out cheerfully, “It’s Prick!”

“Excuse me?”  Dobie had to shout to be heard.

“The band is called Prick,” she said, slowing down and coming closer to them.  Do you remember the movie Showgirls?  It was so bad it actually gave one of our cats cancer, but it had a rilly good soundtrack.”  She danced back out of hailing range.

Dobie looked at Victor, who shrugged.  Lexi ignored them for another song, lost in the irresistible groove of My Life With The Thrill Kill Kult (the song even had a sample that said, “I know I can’t resist…”).  She moved fast, bouncing across the floor in the space she’d cleared out, jumping up on and over the couch once when it became necessary, and dropping to her knees on the floor for the same reason.

When she finished, Dobie and Victor were still standing in the doorway.  They reminded her of bookends.  “Were you up all night?” she asked, turning the music down.

Dobie nodded, allowing himself the luxury of a weary look.

“So was I.  I did some net-surfing.  You can keep your cars if they’re museum pieces.”

“Beg your pardon?”

“There’s a proviso for cars that are for display purposes only.  They can’t take them if they aren’t driven and are prepped to be displayed.  That means we just have to drain all the gas, pull the batteries, and plug up any vent that might be a source of evaporative emissions on the pre ’85 cars.  Super-stupid easy,” she said.

“Who’s ‘we?'”

“Me and Joseph.  You don’t need to get your hands dirty.”

He held up a hand, trying to slow the tide of action a bit.  “Lexi, there’s no need for you to do this.”

“Oh, yes there is, dummy.  I made the mess, and I’m going to clean it up.  Is it too early to wake Joseph up?  We’ve got less than forty-eight hours.  And you’ll need to rent a truck to put the gasoline in, and have someone haul the batteries away.  It’ll suck having to buy replacements for all of them, but it’s better than losing the cars.”  She tossed her head, making her hair flip, then huffed a sigh of frustration.  “Suzi frickin’ Quatro, this sucks!  I wanted to meet the rest of them.  Oh, well.  If you want me, I’ll be in your garage.”  She breezed past Victor on her way out, and tipped an imaginary hat to him.  That was the last time she addressed either of them directly for the next two days.