“What was that?” The neo-greaser named Dingo nervously asked as he scanned the moonlit lobby of the abandoned asylum.
“Sounded like…laughter!” His gal, Switchblade Sally, whispered. She clutched Dingo’s leather jacket sleeve with one hand, and worked the handle of her switchblade like a worry stone with the other. “We should split, Dingo.”
“Yeah…” The two exit the abandoned asylum.
Art: Justin Weingartner
Words: Peter Hammarberg