Predawn in the perpetual summer of southwest America.

A speckled box tortoise finished its labored crossing of a rutted and shabby highway. A thin jackrabbit watched the reptile while rubbing its nose with a wrinkled forepaw. In the shadows, a rattlesnake watched both while deciding what it wanted to have for breakfast. And, the car rolled along. The sun drifted sluggishly over tall spiny cactus and haphazardly strung boulders. Blue skies. No problems? That relentless, molten sun beat down upon the weathered and cracked blacktop.

A 1973 black Plymouth Cuda moved along the faded white lines. Two men laughed and cruised down old Route 66. And, the car rolled along. Death and demented demons from hell were awaiting them at a fateful rendezvous. Hunger and lack of fuel would cast them into a deadly, downward spiral. All soon, the laughter would end in sorrow. It would end before the fat lady could sing. Because the fat lady was dead. All of them inside that twisted sideshow were dead. The two old men were sliding down a steep slope. If they fell too far, they might never get back up again.

Falling wouldn't be hard. But, getting back up might not happen. Those two old men were about to enter a circus of hell. And Bill...well Bill, he hated clowns.