Fiction.

“Look at this asshole over here, revving his engine when I’m trying to concentrate,” I mutter to myself. “I ought to go punch him right in his cock.”

I glance over to the right, where the other car is making some kind of godawful racket. That’s when he pops into gear and takes off into the night.

“Shit.”

I floor it, squealing tires past the girl whose signal to start racing I had missed. By the first turn I’m a full second behind and losing ground, which I blame loudly on the fourth gear ratio.

Ha, who am I kidding. I don’t know a damn thing about cars. In fact, I’m not too good with a stick shift. But who cares? It’s not my car. I take the second turn a bit too fast and skid past a cop going the other direction. I’ve barely regained control when the siren starts.

“SHIT.”

It would be great to stop and have a chat with Kent’s Finest, but I’ve misplaced my license and, again, this isn’t technically my car. The antilocks engage as I swerve the car into a dusty side-street, then I jump out and start pounding pavement. You can always get away from cops if you act fast and remember one thing: they’re fatter than you.

It’s fully morning and I’m fully sober when I walk into the apartment. I don’t even look at my prick roommate before I start busting his balls. Call it a habit.

“Hey, asshole, I ran into your sister at the race last night. I think her butt’s getting bigger now that she’s 17. I like it.”

“James! Buddy! Why don’t you sit down and explain that to Officer Bruce here.”

Shit.

I turn around. Prick Roommate Peter, looking like he just nailed the prom queen, is sitting on the couch across from the hickest cop I’d ever seen in my life. We’re talking toothpick, drawl, and serious chins.

“Doin’ some racin’ last night, son?” asks the cop, looking me up and down. “We ran across Peter’s car out off 43 up near to Streetsborough. Says he thinks you took it. You wouldn’t know anything about that, now, would you?”

Cop #2 saunters in from my bedroom and looks at me. “Mr. Wood!”

“Officers,” I begin. My head starts to pound and I’m suddenly hungry, but fuck it. I hate cops.

“All I was saying was that Peter’s sister has a great ass. And you can go ahead and put that down in your report.”

Peter smiles wider, if possible.

The pigs look at each other. Hick Cop sighs, then says, “Look, you keep your hands off Peter’s car, here. I’m letting you off with a warning, but if you put even a nosehair out of line, I’ll personally nail your balls to the jailhouse wall.”

“Hey, Bruce, you think we’re about done here? I’m starving.”

Peter’s smile slips. It’s beautiful.

Hick-Cop looks at Peter. “Yeah, I reckon we’re about done. You have a good one now.” He turns to me. “Nails. Balls. Think about it.”

The cops safely out the door, Peter looks at me, but doesn’t quite meet my eye, because he is a pussy. “You’re back in Ohio just one day, and you’re already almost arrested? Can’t you stop being a complete asshole for one whole day?”

“Come on, Petey. Your sister missed me.”

“Okay look, I can’t deal with it anymore. You’re out of this apartment, today.”

What? “Aw, fuck, Pete, I was just kidding about your sister. I take it back. She has a tiny butt.”

“I don’t care. You’re out. I’m not dealing with your shit anymore. Out.”

Oh well. It’s back to Richmond, I guess. Ma’ll be surprised to see me back so soon, but she did want me to stick around for that girl’s funeral.