Rad!
My seat rattles every time the illustrious G. Harv presses on the gas. Piece of junk Ford truck. But at least he plays good music and has some nice big bags of Chex Mix in the cabin. I watch as the little gusts outside turn the windmills and sweep the dreary flatness. The quivering hot sunshine brings the lane markings into sharp relief, set upon a straight, lonesome road to Phoenix.
My bewhiskered friend winces into the rearview and spots something he doesn't like. "Fucking Morongo trash!" he grunts, the cherry on his almost wholly consumed spliff blackening his lips. He shoots a glance at the speedometer, which is frozen on one-hundred-fifteen. Suddenly I hear the distant echoes of gunshots, and look behind me to see blurry black sedans tearing through the wasteland. They've been sent by the casino to get their platinum back. That platinum is sitting on my lap inside a battered leather satchel.
"Drive!" G. Harv growls. By the time I hear the command, he has already acquitted himself of steering and thrust his torso completely out of the window. The sedans swim toward us like demon serpents through the wake of our exhaust smoke; he aims a bazooka at one of them. Hastily I grab the wheel just as we've started to veer into oncoming traffic. He fires off the first warhead, then his hairy white arm slithers blindly into a duffel behind the driver seat. He yanks out another rocket and rushes to reload.
"Pull the lever!" he hollers through the wind. "Which one?" I reply. "That one, you dopey Scotsman!" he snaps, pointing at a black handle inside a small glass case on the dash. I pop the case open and pull it. Azure flames spew out of the exhaust pipe, a queer melodic whine emerges from the undercarriage, and this worthless pickup blasts off like a bullet, I mean fucking crazy accelerates — neck-snapping shit that crumples our bodies and tosses them against the back window of the cabin.
G. Harv lets off a frenzied scream. Something under the hood catches fire. The passenger door rips off, clatters once on the highway and is gone. I try to yell "You fucking bastard!" but the ridiculous velocity keeps my jaw held shut. Soon my gut starts to twist, my pharynx spasms, and I puke inside my mouth, a little squirting out from between my clenched teeth. G. Harv is trying to get to the leather satchel, an agonizing feat considering our limbs now weigh about a thousand pounds.
The deafening wind howls past us, like hordes of ghosts fleeing from a tomb. Crumbling pieces of truck chassis leap through the windows. I strain to see a hideous charred face screaming my name: it is G. Harv, grinning at me with those foul tobacco teeth. He pushes a gleaming bar of platinum into my face and lets off a mighty, victorious chortle. "Sometimes we's up against it!" he exclaims crazily. "Yucca dudes don't got no brains, man!"
"Right you are, dude!" I reply, and we speed away into the atomic twilight...
My bewhiskered friend winces into the rearview and spots something he doesn't like. "Fucking Morongo trash!" he grunts, the cherry on his almost wholly consumed spliff blackening his lips. He shoots a glance at the speedometer, which is frozen on one-hundred-fifteen. Suddenly I hear the distant echoes of gunshots, and look behind me to see blurry black sedans tearing through the wasteland. They've been sent by the casino to get their platinum back. That platinum is sitting on my lap inside a battered leather satchel.
"Drive!" G. Harv growls. By the time I hear the command, he has already acquitted himself of steering and thrust his torso completely out of the window. The sedans swim toward us like demon serpents through the wake of our exhaust smoke; he aims a bazooka at one of them. Hastily I grab the wheel just as we've started to veer into oncoming traffic. He fires off the first warhead, then his hairy white arm slithers blindly into a duffel behind the driver seat. He yanks out another rocket and rushes to reload.
"Pull the lever!" he hollers through the wind. "Which one?" I reply. "That one, you dopey Scotsman!" he snaps, pointing at a black handle inside a small glass case on the dash. I pop the case open and pull it. Azure flames spew out of the exhaust pipe, a queer melodic whine emerges from the undercarriage, and this worthless pickup blasts off like a bullet, I mean fucking crazy accelerates — neck-snapping shit that crumples our bodies and tosses them against the back window of the cabin.
G. Harv lets off a frenzied scream. Something under the hood catches fire. The passenger door rips off, clatters once on the highway and is gone. I try to yell "You fucking bastard!" but the ridiculous velocity keeps my jaw held shut. Soon my gut starts to twist, my pharynx spasms, and I puke inside my mouth, a little squirting out from between my clenched teeth. G. Harv is trying to get to the leather satchel, an agonizing feat considering our limbs now weigh about a thousand pounds.
The deafening wind howls past us, like hordes of ghosts fleeing from a tomb. Crumbling pieces of truck chassis leap through the windows. I strain to see a hideous charred face screaming my name: it is G. Harv, grinning at me with those foul tobacco teeth. He pushes a gleaming bar of platinum into my face and lets off a mighty, victorious chortle. "Sometimes we's up against it!" he exclaims crazily. "Yucca dudes don't got no brains, man!"
"Right you are, dude!" I reply, and we speed away into the atomic twilight...
posted by Row of Streetlights at 1:45 PM
1 Comments:
Still the best damn thing I think you've ever written.
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