“Well, your newts’ eyes need rotating,” Townsend informs her.
“And we can re-groove the brake runes, top up your dryad’s milk and crushed tanzanite.” He takes the pen from behind his ear and pokes it into the pocket of his coveralls. “Honestly, though, Ma’am, I’d just drive it until it stops and leave it there. What’s the model year?”
“And what’s it run on, anyway?”
“Clarified virgin’s blood,” she sighs.
Townsend opens his mouth.
“If that’s going to be a joke about gas prices I will hit you in the neck,” Tabitha informs him.
Townsend shuts it.