Now, you know that you will be getting ahead of the fully fleshed out stories that begin further on if you read this. But, there is no reason to not know the whole story before you continue on.
There is nothing wrong with knowing the path ahead for you.
Why?
Simply this:
I have not written the end yet.
So buckle up, baby, and let's go for a ride.
CARS 4
The city of Fuckno did have its attributes. When there were the ten months of sunshine, it was always glorious, every day. The weatherman had good job security. In the rest of the world, one must be correct about the forecast at least fifty-one percent of the time. But in Fuckno, he was correct almost one hundred percent of the time.
“Tomorrow, and the week ahead, sunny, but with temps reaching into the nineties. A cool spell.”
He could have recorded it and simply hit replay each night.
Streets were lined with palm trees, the desert always gave a beautiful sunset, and you could even sleep outside at night, with only a blanket to ward off the slight chill. With no major body of water around, the desert gives off its warmth from the day's radiant sun at night like a hooker sheds her mini.
There were no mosquitoes or black flies, nothing but a warm breeze from the south, the Santa Anna.
It was during such a night when I crashed the Ford LTD. Me and my bud had a whole year to enjoy her before I fucked her up that night. There are tales to tell about our many excursions out of Fuckno, to the coast, to the mountains, through the desert valleys in the central of CA. You see, Fuckno was and always will be a great place to leave. It is centrally located in CA, which will afford you equal access to all the other places you might like to check out, like Westwood, L.A. for Halloween.
I was 17, and had the whole world ahead of me, like a crisp Empire apple waiting for a bite.
_____________________________________________
The LTD’s engine rumbled softly in the moonlight. Kahle’s shirt strained at the buttons, her lacy pink bra beneath holding in all the goodness that a young man finds so invigorating and always almost out of reach. We parked at the side of the road up near the top of Watts Valley Road in the foothills, an hour to the east of Fuckno, nose pointing up, with the blue light of the mid-summer moon blazing in through the windshield.
This was one of those perfect moments that never happen again, so you always remember them. I reached into the back seat and tore open the twelve pack of beer I’d pimped the day before from my favorite wino down at the 7-11 on Belmont, lower west side. I handed her one, and cracked the other. On the floor board below her feet was the ghetto blaster I’d borrowed from my older sister before we left Maine. You see, the LTD’s radio just didn’t cut it. I think that Salt And Peppa’s “Push It” was probably playing.
I mistakenly thought that this was the girl I’d one day ask to marry me, but it didn’t happen. Maybe for the better. I’ll have to tell you about the time I beat the shit out of her rapist, as well as the cross country car trip from Maine that we took, with a fucked up timing chip that I would never let my foot off of the accelerator lest the engine stop, and we made it to Saint Louis, Misery, in 36 hours of coffee fueled fighting.
But this night ended with me at the curb in front of her house on East Weldon by First. I kissed her big lips, and looked deeply into her wide-set brown eyes. She was pretty, but not glamorous, which suited me just fine. I was never one for high-maintenance chicks. Think of her as a Mary Ann, instead of a Ginger.
Watching her glance back at me as she walked to her front door, my stomach got those butterflies. I reached back for the eighth brewskie, chugged it down, and then sped off. I was on top of the world. I slammed the accelerator down, smiling as the wheels screeched even while doing thirty in a 20 MPH residential zone.
Feeling cocky, I waited for the last moment to stomp on the brakes at the stop sign before First Street, with goes North and South. At about fifty MPH, a big bitch like a Ford LTD will need a football field to stop, I think. I never got the chance to find out.
I entered traffic and spun the wheel to the right, in a vain attempt to merge. Luckily, I hit no other vehicle, and no one died. The gigantic metal street-light pole stopped this big beast from going forward for the rest of all time. It actually bent at the point where I struck, and became entangled in the engine compartment.
Steam roiled out, the radiator pulsed coolant, and the street lamp pole was encased in the car’s bumper, up next to the passenger-side engine mount. Without thinking, (I had an egg-sized welt on my forehead from the steering wheel, thank goodness I had ducked instead of eating steering wheel at the last moment) I slipped her into reverse, and backed her onto Weldon, setting her against the right curb. When I shut her off, she gave up the ghost. God love her.
Johnny Law came along, while I was checking out the damage. He never looked in the back seat. “You OK, son?”
I told him that I was driving along, reached down to change the station on the boom box, and when I looked up, there was a telephone pole coming at me.
He told me that I was lucky. And I was. I was alive, and no one had died. But now I had to pay my friend for his half of the car, and his mom threatened to sue, and the city wanted money for the repair to the streetlight pole.
The next day I came back and saw that someone had managed to steal the battery. Fucking crack heads.
To be continued next week…
God Help You.
God Help Us All.
---willies out.
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