The hateful wind echoes violently through hard nosed valley carved by embittered waters below. Stan Furlong waits with passionate zeal flinging the butt of his cigarette into the demanding crack of doom, rechecking the zip-lock seals of invisible plastic bags. The rookie swings his blazing Cadillac around a jagged corner, beeping, blaring his horn, as he brakes on Stan's cold cigarette heap. "Bring the dough?" "In the trunk, Open and see." "...uh million and three, Here's the snow." Another cigarette lit with crimson is thrust through wind chaffed lips. "Be here next week?" "Yeah, you'll be here all week." He knocks the rookie off the edge Into the hungry wind, tossing his aborted cigarette after him, chasing it with the voided and priceless Cadillac. "I liked the car, would've been a good steal," said Stan with firings of afterthought. As the blazing Cadillac fell piecemeal into the canyon, he lights up the last cigarette he'd brought.