The sun was at high noon as I made my way back out into the daylight. Impaled. Can you be impaled my music? Well, maybe I was the first one.
The car's got us out of some sticky situations.
The top of the line stereo's gotta go. There, in front of the Gas Works, in the middle of the sh*ttiest part of this big city, fully lit by a noon June sun, sat JVC in his brand new Mercedes Benz, surrounded by blowing newspapers and dogs and dog droppinngs and bums and bum droppings. Windows wide open, his engrossed, fat, smelly son of a b*tch of a body lay prone in the reclined drivers seat, feet on the dash smoking a Majesty's Reserve.
Blasting what can only be described as Polka. I don't know how to describe it. He says it's from the Netherlands. Lots of trumpets and cymbals. I'm what some might call a modern day, superhero vigilante but I travel around in a carnival sideshow.
Where was he parked? Wait for it. Just wait for it. You won't be surprised. That's right. A spot reserved for handicapped people.
JVC, a perpetual heat score, a constant whiner, an idiot to the third degree was also the heir to millions. He wanted adventure in his life. I needed money for my endeavours. So, we became partners. Crime fighters.
Climbing into the car, I yanked the cigar out of his mouth and he lurched his head forward and his gut was wrenched against the steering wheel. He gave me the look of somewhat who had just woke up and was unaware of his surroundings.
"We have to go, now"
But his attention seemed to be captured by something in the rearview mirror.