Roadkill

The pickup truck purred softly to itself, halogen bulbs illuminating the road ahead. Buck scratched under his hat. Toby was poking at a flaccid, greenish lump, its tentacles sprawled across the center line.

"What're you gonna do?"

"We're rich, Buck." Toby looked up, eyes gleaming. "We killed us an alien."

"Ain't nobody gonna pay for no flat aliens, Toby. They want 'em alive. And what if it's got friends? Angry friends."

Toby grunted and stood. "Shit. Could be messy." He snapped his fingers. "I got it! We ain't killed an alien, Buck."

"We ain't?"

"Nope. We ran over a critter."