“Sully, Sully, man, you gotta believe me, I wasn’t — I wasn’t gonna do nothin’!” The vampire is straining against the handcuffs that have him stuck to the wheel, his voice cracking and pitched high in panic. Honestly, it’s a miracle Sully can still hear him, over the mechanical squeals of the compactor. The junkyard is empty except for Sully, his dog Thunder and Antonio, the unfortunate wannabe vampire hitman. Sullivan takes a long drag of his cigar. “Well, now, that just ain’t true now, is it, Tony? You had a gun on ya. You fucked with the boss’ kid. Can’t let that slide.” The fixer watches as the crusher does its work. He whistles as Antonio’s begging is drowned out by the scream of metal. “Shut it,” Sully says to his dog, Thunder. Footsteps. Sully stubs out his cigar. “None o’ that.” Sully hooks his fingers through the dog’s collar. “You can tell your old man the problem’s taken care of. And he still owes me for last time,” he calls, striding over to the flattened wreck of the car. “Save me the phonecall. Shouldn’t be out here, you know. You don’t gotta see shit like this.”