White Knuckles

pt-cruiser-nightTop down, wind ripping through my head. Cruising 85 down 95, ragtop down and the radio blastin’, not a care in the world. The roar from the GT’s turbo-souped engine fills in between riffs, lights whiz by like demons in the night. I’m gone, way out there, in my own galaxy racing against the stars. A blue blur in the night.

I pull up to some square in a rattle-trap hugging the speed limit. I throw the four-on-the-floor down into second and stomp on the hammer. Rubber squeals and smoke flies as my hot rod takes off like a shot outta hell past the bucket of bolts in front of me. I’m quicksilver, hitting light speed in my rocket-powered Chrysler. 370 mad horses gallop hard through the night. I can feel everything she feels, every curve, every pebble on the highway; I’m part of that machine, and will be until they bury me in my Detroit casket. The speedo tips 100…110…the powerplant still winding out, the turbo-thruster accelerating the souped-up jitney past any conceivable limits. 120…125…130…

White knuckles ache as I grab the wheel as hard as steel clamps. Teeth grinding, eyes squinted, every nerve taught and on fire. Dead cars flying backwards around me. Police lights there, then long gone. 18 wheeler up ahead, coming up fast; I give the wheel the slightest touch to the left and man, I hope the hell the hospital has a lot of Type-O blood handy. Can you dig it?

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