The things we do in the name of... covering our ass
It was all getting out of hand and Warren was to the point that he didn't give a rat's ass if it was natural or Middle Area normal, he wasn't taking anymore chances. Even if only one person knew about the bundle at the bottom of Warren's closet, it was one person too many. Shoving it into a duffle bag with gym clothes, he grabbed his keys and jumped into The Beast.
Pointing his wheezing baby out of town, he drove until there was nothing much around but trees, darkness and likely some supernatural hitchhiker prepared to send him to an early grave. He'd contend with it.
Digging out the bundle, he got out and went around to the trunk. Popping it open, he unwrapped the pistol and carefully wiped it clear of prints. After several minutes of that, he grabbed a container of oil and untwisted the lid. He'd seen it done on some cop show and figured it couldn't hurt. Holding the gun with the rag, he coated everything with the motor oil, inside and out as best he could. Slamming the trunk closed, he held the gun carefully before him as he walked. About a quarter mile in, he pitched the pistol as far as he could, pocketing the oily rag and heading back.
Emerging from the woods, he made a production of zipping his fly in case there was any new traffic. Luckily there was just a semi zooming by, no one taking notice of him. Driving back, he didn't feel anymore relaxed but at least there was one less thing to worry about.
Pointing his wheezing baby out of town, he drove until there was nothing much around but trees, darkness and likely some supernatural hitchhiker prepared to send him to an early grave. He'd contend with it.
Digging out the bundle, he got out and went around to the trunk. Popping it open, he unwrapped the pistol and carefully wiped it clear of prints. After several minutes of that, he grabbed a container of oil and untwisted the lid. He'd seen it done on some cop show and figured it couldn't hurt. Holding the gun with the rag, he coated everything with the motor oil, inside and out as best he could. Slamming the trunk closed, he held the gun carefully before him as he walked. About a quarter mile in, he pitched the pistol as far as he could, pocketing the oily rag and heading back.
Emerging from the woods, he made a production of zipping his fly in case there was any new traffic. Luckily there was just a semi zooming by, no one taking notice of him. Driving back, he didn't feel anymore relaxed but at least there was one less thing to worry about.