Flash Number Two was a zippy little wet brain. His anachronistic wardrobe was stuck in the seventies. He always dressed in pastel, wide lapel, what the hell, bell-bottom disco suits. They always looked new. Is there still a suit factory somewhere cranking these things out? Probably in China.

Flash Two may have had a drinking problem. He disappeared for days at a time. One morning Flash Two walked to work.

“Where is your demo?” the new car manager asked slowly and deliberately.

“Well, it’s like this,” Flash drawled. “I believe it got buried.”

“Buried? What the hell do you mean buried?”

Flashed talked very fast. “I parked it out on this road where there’s a bit of construction going on. It’s a nice quiet place to take a lady. Okay, I woke up this morning in the woods. My lady friend had gone back to her husband. The car, you’ll get a kick out of this, there was a hole they dug to bury garbage. When I woke up I saw tire tracks leading right up to this spot before they just up and disappeared. That’s right. Somehow I had driven down in this culvert and before daylight they had dumped tons of debris on top of it and covered that with dirt and smoothed the dirt out and now there’s the prettiest little tree planted over the car. Don’t that just beat all?”

The manager barely suppressed his rage. “Stay right there,” he told Flash Two. The police arrived thirty minutes later and escorted Flash off the property.