Well, here's Chapter 2. Please let me know what you guys think, thanks.
Observations of a Prick - Chapter 2
by Austin Healey
As I walked out of the classroom and down the hallway, I wasn't quite sure whom I had disgraced. Was it I, or was it the school's curriculum? I was pretty sure it was the school, since my knowledge is infallible(obviously). I emerged from the building and reached into my pocket for my Lucky Strikes. These are an archaic brand of cigarettes that I've grown rather fond of in recent years. Lucky Strike, for whatever insane reason, toasts their tobacco before rolling it into the cigarettes, which seems to deliver a delicious blend of flavor and aroma(possible advertisement). As I was preparing to ignite my nectarous cancer cylinder, a rather attractive brunette approached me and asked if she could have none. I promptly handed her the one I was holding, while I fumbled through my racing jacket for my pack. The brunette stared at the Lucky Strike with grave curiousity as I struggled to find my lighter, "What the fuck!? These don't even have filters, what decade do you live in!?", she shot out as I gave her a malicious look. Completely upon my reflexes, I snatched the cigarette back from her and set the end ablaze, breathing in the world's finest smoke. Now, it's not often that I smoke unfiltered cigarettes. Frankly, you'd have to be the world's most grizzled individual to do so. Unfortunately, it's near impossible to find filtered Luckies within fifty miles of my home, so I'm forced to make do with these as an occasional treat. On your average day, I'm smoking the generic hell sticks that taste like barber hair.
I continued my little stroll down to the parking lot as I heard a muffled "You're a fucking asshole!" coming from behind me. That bitch hath thrust this upon herself, this is what happens when I try to be nice to strangers. I walked along the endless rows of cars in the lot, it wasn't hard at all to find my car due to the nature of the vehicle. Ninety percent of the cars in the lot were plastic pieces of garbage less than ten years old, no soul at all. Some wealthy, insolent fuck was driving a brand new Chrysler 300C with those ghastly twenty-inch wheels. Either his parents were rich and a little slow, or this kid sure knows how to move his crack. I decided the latter was the most plausible reasoning when I realized this was a community college. Finally, I reached the back of the parking lot where my car was wedged between two other examples of feeble-minded transport.
Now, I could spare you the techno-babble regarding my car...but I'm not. My beloved car is a gunmetal grey 1981 VW Rabbit, a thirty year-old archaic reminder of a time long forgotten. Originally, it was equipped with a small diesel engine that achieved more miles per gallon than a Toyota Prius. However, my masculinity prevented me from keeping it in the car, so it was swapped out in favor of a three-liter Audi V6 unit pillaged from a local junkyard in the dead of night. I'm not one to brag(but I'm going to), however, the car has a tremendously amazing balance of raw power and handling that puts that of ANY other car to shame. Fortunately, I decided to do absolutely nothing to the decaying bodywork, minus the racing wheels and tires I added for performance's sake. I feel a properly rusted car has amazing character. Plus, there's nothing more satisfying that outrunning a brand new Mustang GT with a rusty, thirty year-old hatchback featuring a sticker on the back bumper displaying how "Disc Brakes are for Cowards".
The door let out a discerning screech as I opened it and climbed into the cockpit. I tossed my bag into the back, then I fired up the ignition. The exhaust bellowed out an ungodly, flaccid exhaust note as I lurched the transmission into first gear. I continued my revving of the engine as I lumbered the car out of the space and down the parking lot. I was surveying the scene from inside, scowering the sidewalks and stairways for any sign of an attractive woman. You see, ALL women WILL in fact open themselves up to a man sexually if his automobile is capable of unfathomable speeds...or at least that's what I've been telling myself when I wake up each morning, right before I accidentally spill my breakfast scotch over the pet labrador. I put a Dick Dale cd into the player and listened to the sounds of early 1960's surf rock while I steered the VW out onto the road and pulled up to the redlight. I was merely minding my own business when some ignoramus in an enormous Dodge Compensator pickup screeched to a halt in the lane next to me. Apparently, the home-made corn liquor he was likely consuming was already starting to cause his vision to lapse and not see the redlight.
I knew this asshole's demeanor as soon as I saw his disgusting form, sitting high in the cab of his unnecessary vehicle. He looked like a severely mulletted shell of a man trying to re-live his youth using the styles of others, hence his large wheels. Upon closer inspection, I was able to determine he as a complete dullard when I realized he hadn't installed large diameter brakes to compensate for the mass of the twenty-something inch wheels(This means his stopping distance is greatly expanded and he burns through pads like toilet paper). 1980's glam-rock echoed out of his open windows as he tossed another beer can out the rear window and into the truck bed. He was your average moron in a pickup truck, we've all seen them. They don't need their trucks for work, nor do they need them because they have near-inaccessible roads surrounding their homes. They buy these stupid, lumbering brutes because in their minds, NOTHING is faster than a pickup truck with a V8 engine...plus, it makes up for their severely small genitalia which renders them sexually insignificant and unloved. These bastards floor their accelerator pedals at any given oppurtunity, especially if there's a car ahead of them. They then proceed to tailgate said car's bumper for an undetermined length of time so they can reassure themselves of their non-existent masculinity, especially if the car they're tailgating is a compact. Someone had to shut this insolent fuck down, and that would be me.
The light turned green and I stomped on the gas. Now, the Audi motor I installed into my VW may only have roughly 250 horsepower, but when you install that in a car that weighs less than 2,000 pounds you, you have a recipe for acceleration. The screeching shrill of my tires had alerted the senses of the pickup driver. In an attempt to protect his masculinity, the Dodge Compensator thundered off the line with a fierce roar as he attempted to catch up to my VW, but the behemoth's massive weight was its flaw. But I wasn't racing, oh no, I was out to punish the wicked for their crimes. I shifted into fifth gear and wasn't surprised to see the gap between our two vehicles increasing further and further. The look on his face was absolutely priceless, it was that of a disturbed and confused man about to have a brain aneurysm who had found himself in a situation he long ago deemed impossible. Last-minute calculations were made in my head regarding estimates of the truck's stopping distance, due to the large wheels and factory brakes. When I felt the time was right, I zagged the VW into his lane and slammed on my brakes. The engine let out cries of ferocity as I downshifted each gear all the way to first. The truck driver had seen my actions and was acting accordingly, at least in his mind. He slammed on his own brakes, causing them to lock up and preventing him from passing my car in the other lane. The shape of the Compensator was growing ever larger in my rear-view mirror, my foot was on the accelerator in case I had to make any last minute adjustments to the position of my car. His speed was greatly reduced by now, but he was still skidding along with his brakes locked and there was no plausible way our vehicles would not collide. My plan was about to work.
I braced myself before impact as the Dodge collided somewhat gently with my vehicle, at this point it had probably only been travelling at 10 mph. It's tires screeched along the pavement, continuing the long skidmark it had already been smearing onto the blacktop. My rear bumper flexed under the weight of the truck, buttoning up into the bodywork while his front bumper had caved in and mangled his grille into a snarl of metal and plastic. The empty beer cans had flown out of the pickup's bed and scattered about the road, this asshole was paying in full. My calculations had paid off; I had caused a collision where I was not to be at fault in the eyes of the insurance companies, caused minimal damage to my vehicle in the process, and was about to send some drunk-driving piece of shit to jail. The impact had shaken me a little bit, but unfortunately, I wasn't injured. This would mean I'd recieve less money from his insurance company, and it would be much harder to have him convicted in the court of law. I exited my car and walked up the hulking mass of the pickup, its driver also appeared shaken but unharmed.
"Are you okay?", I asked with a tone that sounded like I actually gave a shit. He replied with a drunken yes, then I cut loose. My voice instantly changed to reflect my rage and unsatisfaction with his antics of driving under the influence as I lashed out, "What the fuck were you thinking, asshole? Can't you see my fucking turn signal? Look at all these beer cans, you inebriated son of a bitch!". The driver had emerged from the truck, his face was burning red with anger and humiliation. His mouth opened and I knew the inevitable argument of the ages as underway, "Y-you shouldn't 'a been goin' so fast, you little bastard! Can't you see I'm in a TRUCK!?". From the minute he opened his mouth, I instantly detected the scent of his beer. Today I had encountered only but two actual adults, and both had some form of alcohol on their breath before noon...coincidence? I decided I'd retort, "Fuck you, skag, you're too fucking stupid to even justify your actions! I'm calling the fucking cops, you better fucking have insurance.". An avalanche of emotion raced through the man's feeble mind, I could tell he wanted to punch me, and I was hoping he did. I had pulled out my phone and dialed 911.
As I told the operator what had happened, I noticed the drunk beginning to unravel further. Screams of mindless giberish emulated from his mouth as he began pummeling his truck with his bare hands. He knew the situation; he had caused a dangerous accident(well, I did really, but no one will know and it was with good cause) and he was drunk. I could tell this probably wasn't the first time this sort of mess has happened to him, his actions seemed to stem from a man who knew he was losing his license for a rather long time because of his inability to operate a vehicle while sober. If I had been him, I would've ripped the license plate off and ran off into the shopping center nearby. At least that way it would take longer to be indentified. But no, he was simply screaming gibberish and vulgarities at full mast while he unleashed his aggression on the bodywork of his Dodge Compensator. This continued for a good bit while I waited for the police to arrive. When they did decide to show up a half-hour later, I was delighted that my friend here was in full bore of his distructive and intoxicated rabble. This seemed to alert the officers and send them on edge, tasers were drawn as I was asked to step away from my vehicle. "What the f-fuck do you think you're doing!? DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM!?!?", the drunk roared as he slobbered over himself, giving him the appearance of being rabid. As usual, he was ordered to lay on the ground and place his hands behind him. But apparently, he could not comprehend this and began flailing his arms and screaming at the police officers that this was some sort of "set-up". Yeah, right.
The cops paid no attention to his wild dillusions as one of the tasers shot out into his arm, sending several thousand volts of electricity racing throughout his overweight form. He vibrated around, as if having a seizure, and then did a faceplant onto the pavement. I lit up another Lucky as the officers searched our friend and hoisted him into the squad car. They then proceeded to search his pickup for any further evidence of his douchebaggery. Of course they found several more empty beer cans and liquor bottles, as well as a large bag of cocaine. The driver was absolutely certain that none of this contraband was his property, but thankfully the authorities were on my level. Now normally, I despise the police. I spent the better part of eight years as a severe drug addict and master of vehicular mischief, meaning I feared and lamented any form of authority. But, this sense of loathing had been vanquished after the events that had taken place here. The officers walked over and asked me if I had "seen the fucking look on that shithead's face when it hit the ground? Dude, that was sweet(it was), I fucking love my job!", and I was handed information where I could contact them as well as the pickup driver's insurance company. I gave my new friends a wave goodbye and returned to the VW. Thankfully, the car had not been damaged to the point of immobility and was very much drivable. As I drove home, I couldn't help but think I might actually be just the slightest bit responsible for this mess. No, of course not, this was merely a side effect of the crash earlier.
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