Nick pulled into the mansions circular drive at 10:30 that same morning. He was surprised that the old Beast had made it the 1500 miles and was even more surprised that his credit cards had managed to keep it fed.

The Beast had gotten him through three marriages, 6 moves and over 200,000 highway miles. You couldn't tell by looking at it: the crumpled, rusting quarter-panels; the faded, chipped paint; the weathered dashboard; and the cracked vinyl seat, but it still purred like a cat--not a kitten; but like a mangy old gray tom that always hangs around the neighborhood.

His worldly possessions were in the bed. Two suits, various tacky ties, old T's and faded jeans. An old brown lamp that his first wife made for him in her pottery class. Three Safeway sacks full of worn-out paperbacks. A bright green sleeping bag his brother Ralph had loaned him years ago that somehow wound up in his closet for good.

His prize possession sat beside him on the seat. His battered, gray tape case housed 30 of the best tapes ever made. Years of pain-staking listening weeded out the bad ones and left him with the best of them all. Styx played on the Beast's cassette player. Tommy Shaw was wailing away on "Man in the Wilderness" and Nick absent mindedly kept the beat on the Beast's cracked steering wheel. "The Grand Illusion" was the oldest tape he had. He was currently on his twelfth one, the previous eleven having worn-out from excessive playing. He had planned on picking up lucky thirteen before his real-estate deal went sour.

He had been on the road for 5 days straight and was looking forward to Ralph and Edith giving him a warm dinner, a hot shower and a dry room to crash in. The station wagon was gone, but Ralph, the self-employed wonder, was probably sneaking around. Trying to cross-breed a rabbit and a dog, no doubt. Nick slipped the Beast into park and eased himself out of the cab, unconsciously grabbing the faded, black Nebraska cap resting on his tape case.

Bending over to peer into the trucks side mirror, Nick fingered his close-cropped, blond hair before placing his hat firmly on his rectangular head. Straightening up to his full 6'5" body, Nick righted his Anthrax T and wiped the front of his right Reebok on the back of his left pant-leg. Satisfied with his appearance, Nick placed the head-phones that rested around his neck firmly in place, pressed play and walked to the mansion's front door to the tune of Suicidal Tendencies.