Jan 24, 2016

The last ride

A growling black car was awaiting her last passenger. A 19-year-old boy approached with a backpack in his hand. The driver's head appeared from the shadows and contorted towards the boy with an unspoken question.
- These are just some courses I take, hesitated the boy.
- You don't need them, replied the driver.
The boy calmly sat his backpack in the snow and climbed into the car.
- Mr. Andrew? the driver asked.
- Yes, answered the student.
The driver swallowed a list of names and returned with a grin towards his passengers.
- Gentlemen, none of us will get out alive, so enjoy this last ride.

The motor's timbre was throbbing in their chests like a second heart when the car started on its way with a clatter of smoke.
- Mr. Andrew, these are Mr. George and Mr. Stephen, explained the driver.
George, a hesitant young man, almost trembling, gave him a waive. Stephen, a lot calmer, sat glued to the glass of the door and ignored him.
- And... you? Who are you? asked the student towards the driver.
- Who am I? See those people on the sidewalk, the ones dragging their feet in the snow. Walking corpses they don't exist right now, they inhabit those bodies at work and disappear as soon as they set foot on the street. I'm not one of them, I live on street, with the creatures of the yellow neon lights, the addicts, the prostitutes and the perverts.
- He just wants to know your name, advised Stephen still looking beyond the window.
- I am tonight's gravedigger, continued cheerfully the driver.
- Any chance we survive? asked George.
- Only if you plan on being a half roasted vegetable, but don't worry, I took care that wouldn't happen.
The driver tapped the ripped plastic from the middle of the steering wheel. All the car's airbags had been torn out.
- And I have a few other surprises here, once I press the gas, nothing can stop us.

- Where are we going? inquired Andrew.
- The classic broke bridge over the Crow's gorge.
George put his hands over his face and started weeping.
- It is a wonderful end, it's normal to be nervous, but we mustn't miss the moment, encouraged the driver.
- Why there? asked Andrew.
- What do you mean why there, that's tradition, snarled the driver.
Stephen explained in a monotone voice to the others:
- At the beginning of each year, at the first full moon, the black cars race to the Crow's Bridge. We have to get there first, only the first throw them self's over the bridge, the rest will have to wait another year.
- Exactly, spat through his teeth the driver, and then continued with a smile, we have to make one more stop.

The car stopped at a street corner and three paid girls climbed on the passengers laps.
- I was thinking you would like one last hump before we go over the bump. But we have to do it on the run, we can't delay.
- I don't... opposed George.
- Shut up and stick some wood in the stove man, it will warm you up.
After several minutes of rubbing, one of the dames with pale eyes spoke:
- This boy is done, maybe I can do you next.
- I took care of this sooner, but we can enjoy our time while the others finish, and the driver grabbed the blonde's hair and directed her between his legs.

In front of the suicide squad, a second black car was running in the same direction. The driver pulled beside them.
- Three men trample towards the Crow's Bridge in an old blacky. They're the competition, reckoned the driver.
He pulled the wheel throwing the two cars in a melee. The raw metal contorted in shock, losing some of its painted skin. The cars bit each other and the rival car was thrown off-road into a pillar. The driver smiled towards the boys and came out of the car, waiving a tire iron like a paper fan. The opposite car was now embracing a concrete pole. Andrew followed him:
- Are they like us?
- No not like us, just some amateurs.
The pilot for the rival car was passed out in the airbag cushion, and the driver used the tire iron to open the door and drag him out.
- Maybe next year and take the fucking airbags out.
- What about the others in the car? interrupted Andrew.
- Just some losers, if they are fortunate they broke their necks.

The car continued its ride furiously, spewing blue smoke from behind.
- You're losing oil, you will blow the engine, noted Stephen.
The driver whispered, almost to himself:
- It's also her last ride... it's okay.
- Gentleman, I hope you wrote your last words.
Andrew was the only one who didn't answer. The driver rummaged his pockets and took out half a pencil, paper and a condom.
- Write it down, put it in the condom and swallow it. The heat in this car will reach 1300 degrees, but with a bit of luck they will find the note in the autopsy.

- I don't know what the fuck I'm doing here, I want ... I want to smoke a cigarette, do you have a cigarette? murmured George.
- What do you mean "you don't know"? you're seeking death, you want to kill yourself, mocked Stephen.
- I'll give you one, volunteered Andrew with a pack of cigarettes in his hand.
The driver lifted his head from the road.
- Not a good idea, I don't know if you noticed but it smells like gasoline. I crammed bottles of gasoline in the car doors, and I think our last crash broke some of them.
- Please let me go out, I'll have a smoke and then we can go.
- It's too late and we're almost there, said the driver while steam was coming out of the engine.

The car was racing down the streets like a flaming comet leaving a trail of white-blue smoke behind.
- I don't care what your reasons are. Tired of cold showers in the morning? Bad coffee at work? maybe sniffing glue doesn't inspire you anymore? it doesn't matter, we are already dead ... there's the bridge.
The car rolled gently, to the edge of the bridge, like a wounded animal. Stephen spoke to the driver:
- Let him go, in the news all these suicide cars have only three bodies in them, we're four.
The driver opened his door, pressed the gas pedal to the floor, and countered:
- No you are only three, and saying this the driver jumped out of the car as it jettisoned off the bridge.

Versiunea în română: Ultimul drum

No comments :

Post a Comment