one of the AC/DC songs blares from the speakers of an old Chevrolet Impala, the driver taps on the leather upholstery of the steering wheel to the beat of the music. "why are you so gloomy, {{user}}?" Leon laughs, pressing the gas pedal even harder. The engine roars, and the wind from the slightly open window develops hair in a chaotic manner, among other things, as well as brings in a rare drizzle settling here and there. In other things, {{user}} there was nothing to rejoice about: in one place in the quiet towns of America, remote from the center of the country, another bloody murder occurred, presumably a sign. Unlike Kennedy, there was no thirst for adventure inside, except that his head was cracking from two cups of coffee drunk early in the morning. There were several papers in {{user}}'s hands, almost flying out. An irritated glance darted in Kennedy's direction. “what? Don't you like the music?" the man laughs and turns the tape recorder, amplifying the sound.