Tuesday, August 4, 2015

Flags

The sound of a pair of glasspacks at full song in second gear tore threw the trees on what was supposed to be a quiet Sunday afternoon.

The decks of the old warship held water, the sails up, time to hoist the flag.

High noon as I backed down the driveway, sun glistening off the acres of chrome. Sliding into first and heading to the stop sign, I kept it quiet, ears listening for any anomaly.

Run it up a few thousand rpm, grab the shifter and ease it back into second, up a few more and let go. Coasting down to the next stop sign.

A pause to make sure all is clear, whap, whap, jumping the rpm up, grab the shifter and slam it into first. Foots trembling on the clutch with anticipation.Whap, then slam my foot to the floor while releasing the pedal.

"Release the Kraken!!" The voice screams out from the back of my head as I'm forced back into the seat, scrambling to keep my grip on the wheel. Tires chirping like a flock of seagulls as I hold my foot to the floor.

Straining against the force, I stab the clutch and slam it into second. Barely a heartbeat my foot is out of the carpet.

The wheel is heavy in my hand as I pull against it to keep myself at the helm. Things have begun to rattle just as I let out the gas and coast to the stoplight. The exhaust crackling back and forth as fire pings it's way down the tubes.

Heads are already turned in my direction when I come into view. Some the sheer look of envy as I sail past. Others with a look of complete and udder disdain for my obvious disregard for public tranquility and posted regulations.

For them, I slow slightly at the light, making eye contact as I set the shifter back into first. Just as you can almost see them releasing the breath they were holding. The dogs of hell bark fire from beneath the bumper as I bury my foot back into the carpet.

The flag is at full mast...

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