Red Eyes: Car and Driver

Robert Quick

Where the -@!# did my muse go?

Writer, dreamer, knight, shackled by entertainment . . . and people.


When his cell dinged as an alarm, a single note strong and pure as a minister's daughter, Lamar didn't even break stride to check it. He knew what it was. Every day the same alarm reminded him to be home for dinner. He had an hour to get there and be a dad until he put Akecia to bed. Then it was back to the streets to make his second rounds. Gary's Pawn Shop was on the way home. By his count he had plenty of time to stop by and dig around.

He climbed into his car, a retrofitted Volvo 244. Normally it would have been torn to shit by now but he let a guy pay off some debt with mechanical and interior work. Nothing would make the boxy frame look flashy or sleek and it had a hard time getting above sixty miles per hour but he wasn't trying to out run anyone. If he got in a car chase, then he'd already fucked up bad. The real upside was that the car frame was sold steel, something his Uncle Charlie had praised and Uncle Charlie had known his cars.

He flicked the steering wheel twice for luck and started the car.


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