"Bloody Hell, what 'ave I got myself into? Wha'a dump!"
Even after sundown, which was when they finally arrived late thanks to the Niblet letting the map blow out of the window of the unairconditioned BelAir and into unfindable infinity, Spike could tell his volunteering to go to Camp Wa-Sha-Shu, a cluster of patched canvas tents on uneven wooden platforms, a lodge badly in need of a roof job, two reeking outhouses, a rickety shower house in need of paint, a pool emptied for repairs, and a reed choked lake with a rack of dented canoes plonked down beside it all in the middle of a gigantic thorn bush, was a mistake.
Even if it had made Dawnie stop crying.
Spike reached for the bottle under the seat, but was interrupted by Dawnie's squeals as she scrambled out of the back seat to greet the pack of girls approaching the DeSoto, "Bloody hell, who let the soddin' dogs out?" he snarled, shoving the bottle back out of sight before lighting up a fresh one while fighting the urge to lock all the doors at the giggling onslaught of skinned knees, boy band t-shirts, orthodontia, bad perms, and cheap strawberry lipgloss.
Instead, he parked the DeSoto among the Mommymobiles and a large brand new bright yellow HumVee with a Marine Corps license plate and base stickers, where it slouched disreputably like the black sheep of the family at a suburban family reunion.
"I can't do this." Spike mumbled, forehead pressed against the hard plastic steering wheel, "I soddin' can't do this."
If he ever got the soddin' chip out of his head, he would find Hank Summer's address and put more than just the frighteners on the irresponsible bastard.
Or maybe Spike'd speed things up and hire something large and dangerous to randomly attack Hank Summers while he was on the toilet.
