Frank settled down out in the valley, and he hung his wild years on a nail that he drove through his wife's forehead. He sold used office furniture out there on San Fernando Road and assumed a $30,000 loan at 15.25%, put a down payment on a little two-bedroom place. His wife was a spent piece of used jet trash, made good bloody marries, kept her mouth shut most of the time, had a little chihuahua named Carlos that had some kind of skin disease and was totally blind. They had a thoroughly modern kitchen, self-cleaning oven, the whole bit. Frank drove a little sedan, they were so happy. One night Frank was on his way home from work, he stopped at the liquor store, picked up a couple of Mickey's Big Mouths, dragged them in the car onward to the Shell station, got a gallon of gas in a can, drove home, doused everything in the house, torched it, parked across the street laughing, watching it burn all Halloween orange and chimney red. Put on a Top 40 station, got on the Hollywood Freeway and headed north. Never could stand that dog.