For a while, we'd chased two girls in a yellow compact, but we gave up after we couldn't catch them. Wylie's hastily scrawled "Show Us Your Tits" sign was tossed into the backseat. Driving forward, we saw the mountains give way slowly, and the hills grew greener and taller. Mansion-like buildings began dotting them, standing precariously on prime vertigo real-estate. Wylie was flipping through CDs.

"You know, everyone hates this Cure album, but I like it the best," he said.

"Robert Smith looks like a bag lady," I said.

Wylie looked at the CD. "Robert Smith said, 'If Morrissey says don't eat meat, I'll eat meat, because I hate Morrissey.'"

"Who do you think would win in a fight?" I asked. "Robert Smith or Morrissey?"

I looked over at Wylie's eyes. They were squinted in thought.

At length, he asked me, "Do they get weapons?"

"Yes. They both get purses."

"Robert Smith," he said. "He'd just fill his purse with meat."

"Touché," I said. "Bad karma, but touché."

"The only karma I care about's got four tits in it. Drive faster," he said. Wylie reached into the backseat and grabbed his sign. I asked him if we were almost to the ocean, and he said he didn't know.