with a drop of blood, you will take them out (джен)

Cohle hates nothing so much as the open road. It’s been seven years, ten, five seconds, three minutes. He’s trapped in that moment, and he’s never getting free. Hating’s all he’s got. He puts the keys in the ignition, rolls the window down, and--

He’s not dead, he guesses. Least there’s that. (Or not.)