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The vents screamed cold air almost as loud as the radio, which was playing something very forgettable. It looked hot outside: hell hot. The road in front of the windshield was jerky in heat-choked hallucination. As for the car itself, it was being operated suspiciously like every other car in operation. One person was designated the task of driving and everyone else set about entertaining themselves, or simply himself in this instance.

Himself looked out the right window and thought the trees a theme song. Himself name was Stuart.

"Stuart," mummy mumbled through iced tea and over the air, "What time is it?"

Eyes were rolled. "Look at the radio."

"No, no. That one's wrong. I never had it changed."

"Then shouldn't it be just an hour behind? Christ, mom; do the math."

She took it in stride, bearing the brunt of it with a blush. "Well. Five ten. I told Grandma we'd be there at five. Hm."

"Uhm." And back to the window went Stuart. Obviously, these particular trees would need something more up-tempo than-

"She told me she had a little piece of money for you." Now she was putting icing over their semi-icy last exchange.

"Uhm, that's nice." Now-

"She says you're her favorite, Stu."

"Grandmas play favorites? I don't think God likes that very much."

"Oh, hush. You keep quiet and take that money. It makes her feel good."

Visions of the gigolo lifestyle wore bowties and danced in Stuart's head. His mouth opened and closed, opened and closed, but eventually only a sign emerged. The car couldn't care less and kept on carring. Soon afterwards their two-person party ventured off the blacktop and onto dirt roads.

...

God loves dirt, or at least that's what the Devil would have Stuart believe on some of the albums he listens to. Dirt and dirty things. Putting people in hell and not existing. That's all God loves, really. His hate list is somewhat larger and includes but is not limited to the following:

Rock and roll.
Self-worth.
The Devil.
Playing favorites.
Foods that taste good.
You.
Oh, and everything you stand for.

Stuart had spent the morning in church. A single earphone had surruptitiously snaked its way into his ear and sibilant slips could occasionally be tuned into by those God-fearers perched nearby. Maybe they were asleep. Maybe they thought it was the air conditioning. Either way, no one said anything to him and the word of God went sailing right over his Kiss-listening head.

The music had seemed kind of fitting. What better to bleed out of the mouth of a slow-stomping Southern Baptist madman's mouth than "Strutter"?

The answer is "God of Thunder", but Stuart hadn't had time to spelunk that one from under a pile of... a pile of what? Dualism is nonexistent in Stuart's room, or hazy at best.