She would buy a Greyhound ticket to New Orleans, make a kill or two, then travel into Texas and seduce some wandering man into taking her to Mexico, feast upon him once they got there. Pottiswick had mentioned muttering. They stank, and she hated how they blocked the sunlight. They seem to spend their time yawning and inspecting their neighbour’s dresses through those hateful glasses. Not a job he may care about; but he's a good sport. You're rich. She watched them sleep for what seemed hours from the high window until her body grew colder than the stone sill she perched upon. The Old Mint III.
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