158 lines
8.6 KiB
Plaintext
158 lines
8.6 KiB
Plaintext
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= F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K. =
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Drive
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The roller coaster ride has begun. A moderate series of "S" shaped
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curves leap into view as my headlights cut a path through the darkness.
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Downshift, engine drag, and then acceleration out of the curve. I don't
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think about what I'm doing. It happens automatically. I smile wryly.
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This machine is an extension of myself in many ways. Reaction is so
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engrained into my senses that my mind is free to drift. And drift it
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does. Free. Unencumbered. Some times, more awareness is required, but
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I am often just a passenger on these journeys. I do much of my best
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thinking while I'm driving.
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I love to drive. I always have, since the day I first learned. There
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is a freedom there that you get few other places. And I prefer to drive
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at night. The road stands out more in rural areas at night, and it is
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mine, and mine alone. Daytime has its beauty, but Mistress Celeste. . .
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well, she has an altogether different type of beauty, and she ensnared
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my heart long ago. Cloaked in darkness, I accelerate a bit.
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This is a leisurely pace actually, though rapid for some's tastes. I
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swing through some gentler turns, not pressing. This is play, after
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all, and so much fun. I glance around on occasion at the passing
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scenery. . . hills, trees, and fields, a tunnel of foliage, and a
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stream, caressed by the moon. Rises in the road, a turn, and there is a
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new view, quite bright actually under a near full moon, with occasional
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cloud cover. The clouds slip by gracefully, first obscuring, then
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revealing the soft countenance of her radiance. Sounds merge with sight
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and feeling, and the song accentuates the moment. The left corner of my
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mouth rises into that grin again, which broadens on occasion. So
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beautiful. Headlights occasionally recall me to the road, I focus and
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slow down slightly, and then drift again.
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Tonight is special. Tonight we play the Game, Tascha and I. Tascha. .
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. She has been more faithful to me than almost any woman I've ever
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known. She has waited for me patiently when I have had to leave. She
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is grace personified, and tonight she wants to play. It has been
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building for some time, after all.
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Tascha is a thoroughbred. She is sleek, black, graceful, and sexy. I
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slip inside her, and she envelopes me in comfort and desire. And she
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has an appetite for the road. . . She can both excite and thrill me, and
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sometimes frighten me with her power, grace, and agility. She has been
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ridden hard and put up wet more than once, but with attention, care, and
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patience, she has not wanted, nor have there been any subtle complaints.
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She knows no fear, and she has saved my life more than once.
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The Game we play is quite simple, really. It's called "Stay In Your
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Lane." The rules are only that you stay in your lane, and drive as fast
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as you possibly can. It must be played on curvy roads, of course, and
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roads that you know well. If you cross the center line, you lose. Game
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over. If you lose control, you lose. It's all about control and
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discipline, in the end, and knowing your limits. . . And pushing them.
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You must, however, choose your battles wisely. Wet conditions or fog
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add too many unknowns.
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I near my destination, the road to Reliance, and begin decelerating.
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And now, it's time to pick the wine. Tonight, we have a most eloquent
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selection of Zombie. I cue the song, and my hand taps the gear shift
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expectantly, waiting. . .
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The beginning I particularly love, very curvy, but banked well, and very
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tight. The lolligagging pace I had set before begins to dissolve. I
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have been waiting, after all. I start out slowly, building in speed and
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aggression with the music. Reaction takes over at some point, and I
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proceed.
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"How fast can you go?"
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"Heh. You don't want to know. . ."
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"Yes, I do. . . You're talking pretty big there. How fast can you go?"
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"Faster than this. I'm still well in control."
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"Better. . . Then why don't you?"
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I jam the accelerator, and we leap forward violently. A slight shiver.
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Adrenaline surge. I don't know how fast I go. I can't look at the
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speedometer. I go by instinct. . . touch, acceleration, the feel of
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the curve, the grip of the road. I pound on the wheel lightly at times
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in beat with the music, a wry grin that suddenly becomes a snarl, and
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then back again. The hand switches down to the gear shift for a quick
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change, and back to the wheel. Accelerator and brake in rapid
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succession, and deft clutching keep the ride moving forward quickly,
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almost recklessly to the unobserved, slinging through curves and over
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rises. Lateral forces shift continually as the curves demand precise
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steering. I glance in the rearview mirror, as if anyone would be behind
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me. Heh. Thank the gods for rearview mirrors. Hindsight is 20/20. . .
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"When will you fuck up?"
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". . . Not tonight."
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The grin comes again, and the music assaults my ears. On occasion I
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echo through clenched teeth "Yeah. . . Yeah. . ."
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"What do you want?"
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. . .
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"What do you want?"
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"You know. . ."
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"Of course, I know. Again. What do you want?"
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. . .
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"You can't have it, you know. You may as well get used to it, and quit
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cryin'. No want ever goes fulfilled. When you realize nothing is
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lacking, the whole world belongs to you. Do you remember that,
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perchance?"
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"Fuck you. . ."
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"Fuck me? Listen, you slimy little sack of shit. Face the fucking
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facts, and deal with it. You asinine idiot. God, you *are* a worthless
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motherfucker, aren't you?"
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"Fuck off. . ."
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"Don't pull that bullshit with me, you fuckin' ingrate. God, you suck."
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"Pssshyf. Go to hell. . ."
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"Oh, I'm going, all right. We both know that. But it's a long descent.
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. . Have you built your Ship of Death? Oh, have you? Oh, build your
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Ship of Death, for you will need it."
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She comes to me then, her arms encircle my neck, and her hands rest
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gently on my chest. She whispers from behind my ear, "Come to me." A
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gentle kiss on my neck. "Come to me." Another soft kiss, and again,
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"Please, come to me." Her lips caress my ear, and she tugs at the lobe
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with her teeth ever so deliciously. A slight increase in pressure sends
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a chill down my spine. "Come to me now. . ." My breath comes ragged as
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my chest expands deeply, again and again. So easy indeed. Take my hand
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from the wheel and touch her cheek. Emotion and desire and despair fill
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me to overflowing. A snarling breath as the music builds to a
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crescendo, and with it, the crux. Sound echoes furiously in my head.
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"I want more life, fucker, I ain't done. . ."
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Wide eyed, I zip through the last curves into the straight away, punch
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it madly, and then take my foot off the accelerator. I drift to what
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now seems a crawl, drained, spent, the adrenaline fading, leaving me in a
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drunken weakness. It would not be tonight. The Game is over.
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Screamin' Lord Byron
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= Questions, Comments, Bitches, Ideas, Rants, Death Threats, Submissions =
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= Mail: jericho@dimensional.com (Mail is welcomed) =
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= FTP.SEKURITY.ORG/pub/zines/fucked.up.college.kids =
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= FTP.GIGA.OR.AT/pub/hackers/zines/FUCK =
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= WWW http://www.dimensional.com/~jericho =
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= http://www.reps.net/~krypt/fuck.html =
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= http://www.simunye.com/fuck =
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= http://www.dis.org/se7en/fuck =
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= (c) Copyright. All files copyright by the original author. =
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