Monday, November 12, 2007
It's Saturday night and Kazumi is driving us home from the theater. I've been down and out with the flu the past few days and was sawing some logs because I probably shouldn't have gone out in the first place (the things we do to keep the peace...). Anyway, I'm nearly in dreamland and I feel the car slow down, coast, slow down, coast, slow down. It was enough to rouse me from my slumber and find out what the hell was keeping me from my warm bed. First I looked over at Kazumi. She was leaning over the steering wheel straining to see something deep in the distance under cover of night. I followed the path of her gaze and squinted to locate the phantom that had slowed our progress. As we both gazed into the darkness, a shape clad in black floated into the pools of light thrown by our headlights. It was a dumb motherfucker on a beach cruiser weaving purposely down the center line of oncoming traffic. It's one thing to do stupid shit when it only hurts yourself, but to drag other people into culpability is fucking ignorant. So, Mr. Retardo, I put the heat of Charlie Bronson's cold stare on you.