He was supposed to be good at this.

Forget Pep pounding on the hood of the van and bellowing “SPEED THE FUCK UP”.

Forget the chunks of Frito’s leg splattered down the freeway.

Don’t think about the two-foot-long titanium teeth at the end of the repo barge’s claw arm or the twelve-nozzle acetylene cutting torch array or the 4,000-psi compactor or the fact that the expected value of a vehicle reclamation transaction was higher if you didn’t separate incidental organic contaminants before processing.

Just make. It. Work.