Moony

I met him at the crossroads near my country home late one Saturday night.
His three-piece suit caught my eye, as the style was out of fashion for my neck of the woods.
I slowed my Coupe to a crawl and leaned over to roll down the passenger window a crack, locking the door in the process.
"You need a ride buddy?" I asked.
The man leaned down and peered through the window, a cigarette hanging out the side of his mouth. He tilted back his fedora, squinting like Paul Newman in "Cool Hand Luke."
"Sure fella," he said in a raspy voice, indicative of his habit. "Where ya headed?"
"I can get you to a boarding house up the road," I said.
"I ain't got no money," he replied.
"Oh. Old Mrs. Murphy'll let you work it off, if you're willing," I said.
"Mmmph," was his reply, with a nod.
I unlocked the door and pushed it open toward the stranger.
"Name's Arnie Johnson," I said, extending my hand.
The man looked at my hand briefly and took it. "Everyone calls me Moony."
"Moony," I repeated.
His shoes didn't match his snazzy suit. The scuffed brown shoes had ratty laces and dark spots that glinted in my car's ceiling light.
I looked up at the stranger, Moony, whose eyes had changed and lips had curved into a demented smile. He still stood with his right hand on the door and his left on the door frame.
"Hey look, guy, I don't want any trouble," I said.
"I got this suit off a guy for a pretty price," Moony said in response. "You know what that price was?"
"No, mister."
"Lunch."
I stared at Moony and watched his face suddenly grow hair and his eyes turn a bright gleaming yellow.
I jammed my car in gear and punched the gas pedal, spitting gravel at Moony who lifted his hands to shield himself. The passenger door slammed shut as I sped off down the road and back toward town.
My rearview mirror showed me a disturbing scene. Moony chased my Coupe and had nearly caught up. I was driving 40 miles per hour. With little time to formulate a decent plan, I waited until he was close and slammed on my brakes.
My bumper met Moony's snout with a terrifying crunch and the man lay motionless about ten feet behind my car.
I didn't get out to help. I sped back into town and took the long route to my country home.
I didn't sleep. I paced my livingroom with a loaded rifle. When the sun rose, I hopped in my vehicle and went back to that gravel road.
There was no evidence to show anything had happened there.
But walking toward me, about a half-mile away, I saw a man in a three-piece suit.