Back at the farmhouse, the old man picked up the whisky bottle from the kitchen table, poured himself another drink and plopped down on the ancient Lay-z-boy recliner.
"How long it take, Jake?" asked the old woman.
"Not long," he grunted. "They ain't et since Sunday."
"Git a better sign. Attract mo' folks."
"Nah, the sign's okay. Anyway, we don't need a crowd," said the old man, taking a long, hard swallow.
"What yer goin' do with his car?" she asked, standing at the window admiring the now ownerless Lexus.
"I hear young Dougall needs one for runnin' moonshine. Willin' to pay a good price, too," said the old man.
"Won't he ask questions?" wondered the old woman, pouring a drink and easing herself down onto a dusty couch.
"Nah. He don't care," snickered the old man. "I'll talk ta him tomorrow. Meanwhile, pass the remote. Let's see what's on Dr. Phil."
The End
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