I slot the Topaz into fifth gear in order to quell the perpetual-motion-machine burnout that swells like a demon made of tire smoke beneath the front wheels. The clutch responds with a bit of anger, but ultimately acquiesces to its new future of being spun at a slightly lower speed. Later, the TV news’ sports desk colour commentator (Jock LeStrong) would tell me and everyone else in the tri-state area that it was a shitty up-shift and I must not have known how to drive, which is why I ended up crashing into Brandfest, the all-week-long convention during which the loyal pay respect to their favourite brands.
Now, it’s not that I have a particular opposition to any brand. In fact, I love many of Earth’s mightiest heroes, from Glaxo-SmithKline to the YouTube channel of that guy who tries to smoke meth through anything he can find in his house (subscription count 12.7 million at time of publishing). However, I cannot abide that the persistently terrible jerkwads in city hall decided to sell my spot at the convention centre to these guys, just because they “paid money.” What the fuck is that?
So, in the absence of long-held American institutions like the mafia, the individual must take it upon themselves to redress an injustice such as this. At least that’s what I tell the cops, which doesn’t impact my auto insurance nearly as much as admitting to them that my eleven-hundred-horsepower Mercury Topaz project might require a brake upgrade, or at least a bleed and some fresh pads.