...Here she comes, full blast and top down/Hot shoe, burnin' down the avenue/Model citizen, zero discipline...
Language is insufficient to describe shapes and colors that cavort on the horizon, though lane closures create ample time for observation.
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Black Ford bristles with antennae, lacks hubcaps. Florid driver sports a Miami Vice shirt. Handsome honey-graham partner winks at me through open window. Not classy enough for Troopers. I'm thinking FBI.
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A red garbage truck named Wayne spews styrofoam bits in a steady trickle.
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The Devil drives a late model black Lincoln towncar. I think he's the Devil. He drives like a bat out of hell. I think he's the Devil. His license plate says he is.
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Red Celica beeps tinny annoying beeps. Look up, driver blows a kiss, makes me laugh, I wave. He pulls alongside, saying something, what's he saying? I don't care. More laughing. Sidle to exit ramp, he pulls forward, holding aloft open wallet, cash fanned out. No idea what he wants. Humans, inexplicable. Wave goodbye. Laughter.
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A sign suggests, "Speed Hump." Why not? Fast is good, too.
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