Driving Ms. (Daisy) Valdez
Pinto - the king of cars The tyres screamed a song of joy, and left behind tell-tale black lines, as if daring their kin to follow at their own peril, as the car roared around the corner and into the long tunnel. The headlights blinked on, splitting the ebony of the tunnelís interior like the first piercing rays of sunshine seen by a blind man on having his sight miraculously restored by the hand of God.

The roar of the engine engulfed the black pit in waves of sound. A mad grin split Torstenís face, threatening the top half with involuntary disassociation from its nether sibling, as he howled in response to the wounded cry of the motor. The needle of the speedometer tapped like a metronome as it pounded out a counter-rhythm on the peg at the end of the dial.

Hurtling into the moonlit night like a slug from a .45, the car pitched and bucked in agony as it was thrown into a sharp left turn. Ever so slightly decelerating, to compensate for the angle of the turn, Torsten rocketed through a mountain intersection and into a fairly large, and soft, biped.

The wheels locked. The engine straining, the car spun 180 degrees as the pedestrian seemed to leap thirty metres straight up; Superman without his cape.

Before the dust and the smoke of the shattered engine had cleared, Torsten was a already surveying the damage to the front end, and cursing the hardness of the mystery road-killís bones, which had severely dented the hood of his stolen Pinto.

Doing a few dozen lines of cocaine on the broken rear-view mirror to calm his jangling nerves, Torsten was mildly shocked, and instantly irate at not even being able to rack up the ten points due to all perpetrators of vehicular homicide, by the sight of a badly limping form staggering toward him through the gloom.


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(July 1995)
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