Ten vehicles were lined up in the driveway and along the curb. There were rusted pickup trucks with “Don’t Tread on Me” bumper stickers, minivans with missing hubcaps, and SUVs that had seen better decades. Fifty of Mark’s relatives had gathered, buzzing with the excitement of a public execution.
“Alright everyone, listen up!” Martha shouted from the porch, holding a clipboard. “We are going to give Mark and his… wife… a proper send-off. We’re going to the South Side!”
A cheer went up from the crowd. Uncle Jim cracked open a beer, even though it was 11:00 AM. Aunt Becky waved a plastic bag.
“I stopped at the Dollar Tree!” Becky yelled. “I got her some housewarming gifts!”
She pulled out a bottle of generic bleach. “To get the crime scene stains out of the carpet!”
The family roared with laughter.
“I got them a mousetrap!” Cousin Earl shouted, holding up a wooden trap. “And a can of beans! In case they run out of food stamps!”
Martha beamed. This was her moment. She was the benevolent queen, bestowing charity upon the peasants while simultaneously reminding everyone of their place.
“Let’s roll out!” she commanded.
The convoy started engines, belching exhaust into the sticky air. Martha drove the lead car, a tan sedan that smelled of stale cigarettes. Mark sat in the passenger seat, looking nauseous. Elena sat in the back, wearing oversized sunglasses and a simple white sundress.
“So, Elena,” Martha shouted over the roar of the engine. “Did you pack your pepper spray? I hear the neighbors in that area are very… friendly.”
“I think we’ll be safe, Martha,” Elena said, looking out the window.
“Safe? Honey, you’re not safe unless you have a fence and a dog. But I guess beggars can’t be choosers.”
Martha punched the address into her phone’s GPS. “Let’s see where this dump is.”
The GPS calculated the route.
“Turn right onto Highway 9,” the mechanical voice instructed.
“Highway 9?” Martha frowned. “That goes north. The South Side is… south.”
“Maybe there’s construction,” Mark mumbled. “Just follow the map, Mom.”
They drove for twenty minutes. The scenery began to change. The strip malls and pawn shops faded away, replaced by green fields and white picket fences. Then, the fields turned into manicured lawns. The houses grew larger, set further back from the road.
“Where the hell are we going?” Aunt Becky’s voice crackled over the walkie-talkie Martha had insisted on using. “This looks like rich people land.”
“The GPS must be broken,” Martha muttered, tapping the screen. “It says we’re ten minutes away. But we’re heading toward Hidden Hills.
