The Crown Victoria is the only real American car left. That’s what I told the 27 year old woman sitting in the passenger seat. She smiles. That kind of pisses me off. I wasn’t joking. I was stating a fact. And I state it again. The Crown Victoria is the only real American car left. Four Doors. Made solely out of steel and glass. The smallest engine you can get is a V8 the size of a Hyundai. The only wheels that get power are the ones in the back. It has a trunk big enough for 2 bodies and the equipment needed to bury them. And the ride is a soft as my passenger’s breasts. That’s a car.

I press the accelerator and the dial on the dash rotates past a hundred. Driving fast at night is like as close as you can get to an acid drop without having to seek out a connection.  The lights blur and the lines on the highway blend into the distance. She leans across me and turns off the head lights. I made the right choice at the bar. Twice the speed limit in a blind tank.  Even if I did hit something, it’d be two days before I realized it.

I hit something. Donna laughs. Funny how you remember the names at the oddest moments. The cops told me the mailbox never had a chance. But that luckily everyone in the car was uninjured. A mailbox? Isn’t that a federal offense? I’m trying to figure out how much it’s going to cost me to ‘convince’ this ham that Donna was driving. I hate to do it, but I got a deadline to hit and a jail cell doesn’t help the creative juices flow. But he’s cool. ‘Unsafe roadway’ is what he writes it up as. I guess Donna was more convincing than the $500 in my wallet.  

The cop isn’t as cool as I thought. He won’t give me my keys and tells me I’m off the road in Maryland . I don’t think he can do that, but he does. I need my fix though. I need the speed. The days of snorting blow off of some girl’s stomach you met on a barstool are gone. Gone as of 1 hour ago.

At home I pop in something to take my mind off my lack of wheels. Need For Speed:Carbon. It’s all here. The blurred lights, the cars built like tanks, even the women with bodies sculpted by Hugh Hefner. Even the Crown Vic is here, but it wont let me drive it. Instead I have to choose from a selection of rice burners, eurotrash rev rockets, and redneck muscle cars. It wants me to join drifting events and downhill races, but I just want to cruise, running from the cops and smashing into mailboxes. And I do. I don’t even miss Donna that much. 27 my ass. I saw the police report. 34. I do miss my Crown Vic.  Score 7/10 

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