Seventy Per Cent.

Hot thick air buzzing with insects. Fluttering things weaving around the cold fluorescent lights. The concrete walls smell of wetness. Auto fumes.

Asaph Whateley drops another quarter in the slot, hoists the heavy metallic wand. The rubber hose is reluctant. He fights it as he maneuvers around the car. Water jets out of the nozzle with satisfying pressure as he sprays the car down. The slowly clotting blood rinses clean from the scuffed paint, pooling into disconcerting shapes on the cold concrete flooring.

The car is covered with blood.

Asaph works quickly, taking care with the grille and the wheel wells. There is a lot of blood. And he doesn't have a fuck of a lot of quarters.

Wade sits in the car. For awhile he stares unconcernedly at the blood-coated windshield, the cold lights of the carwash leaking through the thick crimson sheet making it look like the glass is made of candy. Strawberry Jolly Ranchers maybe.

Then the blood is sprayed away, drizzles down the windshield in dissipating rivers, a froth of diluted scarlet.

Wade turns his gaze to the dashboard. His eyes are lazily drawn by the patterns of sawdust and cigarette ash. Traceries of another language. Something hidden. A meaning not quite apparent to him. He tries to decipher it for a moment, his mind poised to tease out the secret, before he loses interest.

He turns his gaze back out the windshield. Asaph is behind the car now. The water makes a comforting sound as it buffets the rear fenders. You could fall asleep to that noise. Wade closes his eyes a little and tries to relax. He listens to the sounds of the water as his brother carefully washes the coagulating blood off the beaten up police cruiser.

The water pressure fizzles out. Asaph spits a curse. Trudges over to the shiny steel panel, digging in his pocket for another coin. Pulls one out and shoves it in the slot.

Nothing happens.

He curses again and punches the panel.

Nothing.

Hits the coin return button.

Nothing.

Reaches into his pocket again, digging out another quarter.

Starts to shove it in the slot. Stops. Looks at it.

A fucking nickel.

A goddamn fucking nickel.

A god motherfucking damn motherfucking shiteating fucking nickel.

It sits in his palm, accusing. Mocking.

Asaph is out of quarters. He throws the metal wand on the ground. It clatters loudly and uselessly as he stalks back to the car. Blood pools thickly under the driver's side door. He splashes through it, unmindful as he heaves the door open and climbs in.

"Is it clean?"

"Yeah, sort of."

"You didn't finish?"

"We're out of fucking quarters."

"Oh."

"..."

"...so is the car clean?"

"Fuck if I know. I couldn't finish."

"Oh. Do you think anyone will notice?"

Asaph pulls the door shut with a resounding slam and stabs the key into the ignition. Grunts as the car starts up--coughing, angry, old.

The battered cruiser pulls out of the carwash port tentatively, headlights painting the night like the surface of the moon, like some airless asteroid. Living in the cold, disapproving glare of the distant Earth.