These aren't the stories your mother told you.

No, these are the other stories.

Double Dash, written by Daniel Wilcox, narrated by Ian McEwen.

It's so warm in the car that it makes me not want to head back out into the chill night air.

The exhaust fumes catch the beam of the tail lights at the back of the car,

creating puffy red clouds that remind me of blood floating in water. It's nearly 3 a.m. and I'm

dimly aware that the man sat in the driver's seat is talking. You got that?

The gruff, commanding voice of Agent Saxon asks,

a paint-by-numbered copy of every handsome TV detective I'd ever seen.

In and out, no mess.

I raise an eyebrow. He rolls his eyes.

Minimal mess, he resigns.

I adjust the eye holes of my mask.

Somewhere along the journey here, the thing had slipped, blocking half of my vision in a wash of white spandex.

I always hated it, really. Never understood why our identities needed to be hidden in an

outrageously camp costume that displayed our nether regions. At least, that was before my son,

Bronco was born.

In and out, I say to myself, in and out.

I step out of the car, immediately feeling water seep up my legs as my outfit drinks from the puddle in the road.

The rain has eased somewhat since the torrential downpour that had sheeted the metropolitan city only a couple hours ago.

My mouth curls into a smile.

My heart begins to race as I look across the road to where a run-down block of apartments is sat between two larger buildings. Covering the front is a smattering of profane

...