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I'm taking the Maybach and starting my in-gines
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Jun 9, 2021 18:16
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| # ¿ Apr 16, 2024 23:30 |
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I just like to drive fast 973 words Jackie covered his face with his hands as the speakers blared. He knew old timers always hate the next generation but he was pretty sure he was actually justified in it. He raced for over twenty years and only crashed twenty times total. This new kid, though... Oh, You hate to see it! P.P. Weiner just caught the edge of Jeff Trayvis’ Kirin Ichiban car and has spun out, clipping the wall, there goes the race for the presumed leader today. Pit crew is already out on the track. That is the twentieth crash for Weiner this year. We hope the best for him and all of his family. We’re praying for you, P.P. Hope it’s not too serious. And… and we do have a wave from the car! P.P. looks like he might be okay! We’re gonna cut to commercials now while we wait for the track to be cleared. We’ll update you with more information as we receive it. This is... RaceNewz. “Idiot son of a bitch!” Jackie said. He fumbled with the top of his medicine bottle. Retirement, too much free time, too much fast food, and way too many beers had left him overweight and diabetic. He popped a couple pills. He wasn’t sure what they were for but he knew that he needed them. Sleep apnea, high blood pressure, arthritis, other stuff he couldn’t even pronounce, he was a mess. “The kid didn’t need to push,” Jackie said. “He had the points even with a top ten finish. Somebody needs to put that kid in his place. Educate him.” And Jackie knew just the person to do it: himself. As a former champion and current company spokesman, he had access to every area of the raceway, though he hadn’t been outside of the viewing booth in years. He hobbled down to medical. He saw the kid laying in bed, head wrapped with a bandage, arm in a sling. Jackie sighed and put his hands on his hips. “Listen, P.P., we gotta talk. You’re a helluva racer but back in my day-” “It’s not your day anymore, old man.” “Back in my day,” Jackie repeated. “My generation, we did things different. We did things right.” “Like taking advantage of social systems you then aggressively dismantled while pulling up the metaphorical ladder behind you leaving the next generation to suffer through economic hardship as wages stagnated for the sole benefit of a few billionaire overlords? Or do mean the way you eroded the foundations of democracy by rabidly supporting authoritarian nationalistic strongmen who have been systematically stripping voting rights and pushing out laws that unfairly target minorities while giving huge tax breaks to corporations?” Jackie blinked. “I, uh, meant about racing.” “Who gives a poo poo about racing?” P.P. said. “Climate change is going to end the world and your generation is gonna fiddle while everything burns. Hopefully, if enough of you die soon, we’ll be able to finally outvote your idiot demographic and save our country, our democracy, and our world but what do I know? I just like to drive fast.” “You crash too much,” Jackie said. “It’s unnecessary.” “What’s unnecessary,” P.P. said, “is the blind support of law enforcement. I mean, first, it’s just a job. You can quit being a cop whenever you want. Second, it’s disrespectful to our racing roots. When I’m out on the track and see Blue Lives Matter poo poo, man, it makes me hotter than a hornet’s nest. We started suping up fast cars so we could run from the police and we were running from the police because gently caress the police.” “You little... I’m not gonna stand here and let you badmouth this country’s brave-” “Then get the gently caress out,” P.P. said. He checked his phone and smiled. “I just raised half a million for charity and it hasn’t even been an hour yet.” “What?” “If I win, I get a lotta media attention. If I crash, I get a lotta media attention. And when all the eyes are on me, I can promote whatever cause or charity I want. Today it’s the First Nations Development Institute. A charity watchdog agency has given them top marks eight years in a row. So, yeah, sometimes crashing is pretty cool, huh?” Flustered, Jackie left without another word. He replayed the conversation in his head for the next several hours, arguing it over and over and over, in the car, on the couch, in the shower, until he finally won. Newly confident, he grabbed his phone. He called P.P. He was going to give that kid an education. Unfortunately, he’d been so focused on talking to himself that he forgot to take his medication, specifically his insulin. The phone was ringing when he tripped, hit his head on the corner of his coffee table, and lost consciousness. When he awoke, he couldn’t sit up. He was too weak. He realized he was slipping into a diabetic coma. He realized he was going to die. He looked around for his phone. It was just out of reach. “Jesus,” he said. “Jesus, save me. Help me, son of God.” But Jesus wasn’t coming. Someone else was. Jackie was crying when his living room wall exploded. Smoke and dust and shattered glass was everywhere. As the air began to clear, Jackie saw the outline of a racecar. “P.P. Weiner!” he gasped. The kid himself crawled through the broken windshield, flipped up his helmet’s visor, and said, “I heard you mumbling on the phone about dying. I’m here to save your life and raise a bunch of money for kids with diabetes while I’m at it.” “But why crash through my wall?” Jackie groaned. “I have a front door!” “Because it’s cool as hell.” P.P said. Then he winked.
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Jun 9, 2021 20:26
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Revving up my in-in-ingine!
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Jun 15, 2021 20:08
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A story about a crash 1002 words Tiffany lived with her dad in a mobile home next to the race track. The home had never actually been mobile, though, as far as she could tell. It was up on cinder blocks and it was hot in the summer and it was cold in the winter and it shook terribly whenever racers were driving, which was often. She was shy and a little weird and only had one friend but she was happy because her one friend was a magic kiwi bird that granted wishes. The bird’s name was also Tiffany. This was coincidental. Unfortunately, Tiffany wanted to show Tiffany her cartwheeling skills because she’d been practicing very hard at school during recess when all of the other kids were playing with each other and ignoring her. And, in order to give Tiffany a good vantage point, Tiffany put her on the mobile home’s condenser unit. And Tiffany fell in. “No!” she cried. “Please no! I wish- I wish that you were safe!” Unfortunately, Tiffany was all out of wishes. She’d spent one of them on this very same air conditioning unit. This was ironic. She ran up and desperately pulled on the metal grating. She hit it with a rock. A rusty screwdriver was conveniently laying in the brown grass nearby but she wasn’t strong enough to bend anything. A grown man would have struggled with such a feat. It was, after all, from the Prian company, a world leader in mobile home temperature control and thus very sturdy. And, deep inside, trapped in the blades, was her one and only friend. Tiffany’s poor eyes were bulging as her body was slowly squished. She opened and closed her beak but her words were barely a whisper. “It’s okay. It was an accident. I love you. And your cartwheels looked cool and good. I’m glad... I could see them... before… before I...” “You’re not gonna die!” Tiffany said. She ran inside the shaking mobile home (there was a race going on) to beg her dad (her mom wasn’t in her life) for help. But his eyes were glued to the television. He mumbled responses until she mentioned where Tiffany was trapped. “No,” her dad growled. “Don’t be messing with my Prian fan. I’ve always been unlucky but then I won that sweepstakes right after you made that wish for our home to be more comfortable in the hot summers. If we break it, I’ll never be able to afford another.” “But my best friend is-!” “A bird,” he said. “There’s a million of them outside.” “But Tiffany is a magic kiwi that grants wishes and can talk!” “Lotts birds out there,” he said, his eyes back on the television. “Man, racing is cool as hell.” “Help me, Dad, I’m begging you,” she begged. “Help me, please!” But her dad wasn’t going to budge. “Keep your hands off the fan,” he said. “Or there’ll be trouble. Man, I wish I could meet a race car driver.” Tiffany was tugging on her dad’s hand, trying to pull him outside, when there was a terrible crash! Two cars collided on the screen but they could hear it with their own ears through the thin walls. They stared as one car hit the barrier wall and the second… the second burst right through it! And now it was headed towards their home! It went out of the camera frame. A moment later, the relative stillness around them was over. Everything exploded. Tiffany coughed and waved dust from her eyes. The air was thick with smoke. Shattered glass crunched underneath her feet. There was a racecar in her living room! The driver crawled out of his broken windshield and popped up his viser. Tiffany and Tiffany’s dad gasped the same words at the same time. “P.P. Weiner!” “That’s right, it’s me,” P.P. said. “But I can sign autographs later. Is anyone hurt?” “Yes!” Tiffany said. “My best friend!” “Oh no!” “Her best friend is a so-called magical kiwi that grants wishes,” her dad explained. “She’s trapped in a condenser unit. But I don’t care. There’s a million birds outside. And that unit is from the Prian company, a world leader in mobile home temperature control and thus very expensive. I won it in a sweepstakes. But, right now, I’m worried about how I’m going to pay for all this damage. I’m very poor, you see.” “Not anymore, bucko,” P.P. said, shooting a finger gun. “There’s no way the safety regulations on that track are up to date or up to code. You could have been seriously hurt or killed. You’ll be getting a huge settlement. You’ll be able to buy a Prian for every room in your new house.” “Nice,” Tiffany’s dad said. “Now, what’s that about a best friend being trapped? Let’s get her outta there!” Tiffany cheered and exited the living room with her dad and the driver through the gaping hole in the wall. She pointed at the metal unit. Unfortunately, she was too late. Tiffany was dead. Crushed by the machinery. “No!” Tiffany sobbed. She fell to her knees and cried. Her dad removed his hat and held it over his heart, touched by her emotions. He wished he’d been a better father. Maybe, after today, he could be. He could pay more attention to her. He could watch her do cartwheels or something. P.P. peered through the metal grating. He took a quick step back. “Wait,” he said. “This isn’t just any old magical bird. This is a phoenix!” “What’s that mean?” Tiffany asked. “It means we can bring her back to life if we can burn her body. I’ll use my car to bust open the metal that’s trapping her. Get some wood, little girl, quick! You, too, man who I am assuming is her father!” “I am her father,” Tiffany’s dad said proudly. “I don’t understand what’s going on!” Tiffany said. “It’s basic mythology,” P.P. replied. “We can save your best friend. All we gotta do is get her body out of a Prian fan and into a pyre!” Tiffany cheered and then she did an excellent cartwheel.
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Jun 15, 2021 22:32
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Grabbing COCAINE and startINg my IN-INges!
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Jul 14, 2021 01:37
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| # ¿ Apr 16, 2024 23:30 |
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I used COCAINE My name is Twist 1100 words Jimmy Twist. Police detective. I'm at the crime scene in a hotel convention room and there's a hundred and ninety-six dead bodies here. Dead white supremacist bodies. The mystery? Who did it. The answer? Me. I put poison in their unseasoned baked potatoes. They couldn't help themselves. My partner, Sebastian, who has a funny accent, Boston maybe, says, "This is gonna be a lot of paperwork. I'm too old for this poo poo and I'm ready to retire." "It doesn't have to be that way," I retort. "We could write it up as a gas leak and then go get some drinks together like back in the old days." "The old days are gone," he says. "And it wasn't a gas leak. It was cocaine." "Whaaat?" I say in a comically high-pitched voice. "Cocaine? No…" "Yiss," Sebastian says in his funny accent. "And what's more, I think it was a poisoning." "Whaaat?" I say again. "Why? Maybe they just accidentally OD'd. We put that in the report and the paperwork is done!" "White people like this? They'd never season their baked potatoes. Even with cocaine." I swallow. "Furthermore," he says, "this exact amount of cocaine found here is the exact amount that went missing from the evidence locker last night." "Weird," I say. "And I was working in the evidence locker last night, too, right before all those drugs went missing! That's ironic." "Twist," he says. "I think you mean coincidental." "I do." But I didn't. People use those words all the time seemingly interchangeably and I know there's a difference but no one's ever explained to me what it is and who am I going to ask? I'd look so stupid. I'm a police detective. I need respect. That's why I got a badge. "Between the two of us," Sebastian whispers. "I think it was a cop." "Whaaat?" "We found a badge at the scene. It had your picture and your name on it. But you hadn't arrived yet." I felt in my pockets. Oh no! I must have accidentally dropped it when I was poisoning the food! Thinking quickly, I say, "Someone might have made a copy of mine!" Sebastian nods. "That's what I was thinking, too, old partner, old friend. You were at my wedding. You're the godfather of my beautiful children that I don't get to see enough since my wife left me. But I don't blame her. You can't be married to a wife… and the job. Plus, I drink too much. Let's go look at that fake badge and compare it to your real one. Maybe we'll find a clue." "Sure," I say. "Sure. I think we'll both be really surprised at what we discover." I swallow. I sweat. My stomach churns and chumbles. I can't do this. I have to get out of here. I need an excuse. Fast. And a good one. "I gotta find a toilet," I say. "I gotta go number two." "Badge first, bathroom second," Sebastian says. "Everybody knows that." "Right, right, right. Everybody knows that." We walk to the table and Sebastian picks up my badge. I stare at him. He waves at me to pull mine out but he's already got it in his hand. This is going to break his heart. This is going to send me to jail. I open my mouth to speak when- Everything. Explodes. I'm knocked to the ground. My ears are ringing. I cough and wave dust from my eyes. The air is thick with smoke. Shattered glass crunches underneath my feet. And there's a racecar in front of me! And a giant hole in the wall! The driver crawls out of his broken windshield while holding a baby and pops up his viser. I gasp. “P.P. Weiner!” “That’s right, it’s me,” P.P. says. He's the world's most famous racecar driver. "But I can sign autographs later. Is anyone hurt?” Sebastian stands up, dusting himself off. "A hundred and ninety-six dead, P.P. But that was before you got here. White supremacists." "Good riddance." "Hey," I say. "What's with the kid?" "Oh, this little fella? I saw him crawling off the balcony of his hotel room. He was falling fast but I knew I could I save him if I tried. So I did. Sorry for coming into your crime scene like this." "Thank you for being a hero," I say. I look down and I see my badge at my feet. Sebastian must've dropped it in all the commotion. I pick it up. "You're a real hero." My heart swells in my chest. Police officers start crowding around P.P., begging for handshakes and pictures, but I need to say something. I owe it to this man. I can lie to myself, to my partner, to the whole world, but it would be wrong to lie to him. "A moment of your time, please," I say, raising my hand. Somehow, in the middle of all that noise, he hears me. "Just a minute, everyone, just minute!" He parts the crowd likes Moses, wraps an arm around my shoulders, and leads me a few feet away. "Now, what's on your mind, big guy?" I take a deep breath. "I need to tell you a secret. Something I've never told anyone. Twenty years ago, my brother was killed by a white supremacist. He was walking home from school and this guy was in his truck and he was really drunk. He fell asleep at the wheel. Smeared my baby brother across the payment. Closed casket funeral. His racism didn't really have anything to do with the accident as far as we can tell except for making a rough correlation between that kind of sick mindset and substance abuse but I've held a grudge. And I killed all of those people. And I was going to get caught before you burst in but now I'm not unless you think I should be. I'm putting my fate in your hands, P.P." P.P. nods solemnly. He says, "I feel like if I'd been there for a longer part of your journey this would be much more significant reveal to me. But, even so, I just want you to know that I recognize what you're doing and that I see you. I see you healing." "Thanks," I say, wiping a tear from my eye. "And let me tell you a little secret," he says, squeezing my shoulder. "Nazi lives don't matter." He gives me a quick finger gun and then spins towards the crowd. "Now who wants an autograph?" The cops cheer.
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Jul 14, 2021 03:47
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