Logan Barnaby was in a hard rock band, and he had a hard-living kind of face, he looked like the kind of man who lived in his car, which he in fact did — it was parked at the end of a dirt road at the far end of Smashwood. His work-hard jowls and broad shoulders were sore, his hairy greasy and unkempt, his cock uncut and fat as the beer bottles he was constantly drinking from.