On the outskirts of Madrid, he steered to the shoulder of the road and climbed out to stretch, as well as gather his thoughts and his emotions, so he could prepare himself for the task ahead. This was where he always watered Bullet. He smiled at the thought of Bullet prancing along the greenbelt, exploring new smells, searching for the perfect pee spot, then leaving new scents of his own. He slid behind the wheel and drove on, the window cracked open to clear the veil of condensation that blurred his windshield.
Minutes later he exited at Cerrillos and crossed over the I-25. At Beckner he pulled into the right-hand lane and steered into the outlet mall’s vacant lot. Parked far from the entrance with the nose of his truck facing incoming traffic, he hooked a crazed mirror over his steering wheel and smeared a thick layer of reddish-brown cream over his entire face, then wiped off the excess. Next, he applied bushy eyebrows and a mustache.
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