By Megan Lansing

"You ready, Jesse?"

"Ready, Ron. Ready steady."

The two men sat side by side on a curb in the empty parking lot finishing their cigarettes. It was late at night. The only sound was the roar of the occasional jet taking off from the nearby airport and the idling engines of the cars. Behind them sat on a broken milk crate was a man in a pair of bermuda shorts and a faded polo shirt. He took large swigs from a bottle of Crown Royal and smoked like it was going out of style. His name was Bernie.

"Get this over with," Bernie said, coughing up smoke.

"You sure you want to do this," Jesse said. "Last chance."

"I paid you, didn't I?"

"Yeah, I guess you did. But it's a shame to bust up these cars. I kinda like 'em." Jesse flicked his cigarette into the parking lot. "We don't have to do it. We could just walk away."

Bernie stared at the ground and thought a moment. "No. We're gonna do this."

"Suit yourself. It's your money."

Jesse and Ron stood up at the same time and went to the cars they'd brought over from Bernie's collection. Jesse got to drive the cherry red 1966 Mustang. Ron got to drive a bumblebee yellow 1964 Stingray. Sweet rides on glistening rims. The insides were upholstered like new and climbing in the drivers seat felt getting in some damn good pussy. The men strapped in their seatbelts, gave each other a thumbs up and revved the goddamn engines.

Bernie put down the bottle and flipped off each car. His loud, "Fuck you!" was drowned out by the crying tires as the two cars jumped forward and went criss-crossing across the parking lot.

Jesse jerked the wheel as they got just past the first lightpost and rammed the Mustang's hood against the Stingray. The Stingray spun, nearly flipped, but maintained. Ron pumped the gas and gunned the Stingray straight at the Mustang's ass, hit hard. Jesse flipped gears into reverse and slammed backwards into the side of the Stingray.

Bernie was on his feet, both middle fingers in the air. "Fuck you, Diane! Fuck You!"

Ron took the Stingray in big circles, sideswiping lamp posts, hopping curbs. Ron had the stereo bumping Guns 'n Roses, a cigarette dangling on his lip. They crashed into each other over and over and over.

The boys played for about fifteen minutes, grinding fenders, smashing headlights, crumpling steel. There were pieces of glass and chrome everywhere. When they got done, the Mustang couldn't move. Ron angled the Stingray behind it, trunk-first and hit reverse, slamming the cars ass to ass, and pushed the Mustang back towards where Bernie was. Jesse and Ron climbed out, holding their bruised sides, rubbing their whiplashed necks.

It took crowbars to pry open the trunks. What was inside each were the bloody, broken, tied up slabs of meat that used to be Bernie's wife and Bernie's best friend. Bernie climbed up on the broken bumpers, unzipped and pissed all over the bodies. He was laughing and crying at the same time.

"Guess we gotta take a cab home," Ron said.

Jesse pulled a smashed pack of Camels from his jean pocket. "Damnit, you crushed my smokes!"

When Bernie got done wagging his dick at his whore wife and his bastard friend, they helped him down and climbed into a Mercedes Benz parked safely behind a concrete divider. Ron drove. Jesse sat shotgun. Bernie sat in back, crying.

Megan does her thing outta Houston, Texas. We love you, Megan.

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