Your car is a piece of shit, I said, and meant it. The back doors couldn’t open from the
inside so it would be easy to kidnap a passenger and one of the windows was taped shut,
but he wasn’t worried about stealing because nobody would even think twice about
stealing from a car as crappy as his, paint peeling around the sides, the whole machine
tired out from hitting a curb too many. You should never joyride in a nice car. It defeats
the purpose. You can’t really understand what it’s like to be free until you’re cruising in
some death machine where the check engine light never turns off even after the engine’s
been checked and the stereo devours every CD that enters its vicious, toothy,
laser-technology maw. Every corner cut too soon brings you closer together as you
scrape your nose against the pavement of death, then get up again and declare yourself
immortal.
