One piss-hot summer night in the late 1970’s, eight buzzing teens squeezed our throbbing flesh into my pal Murray’s souped-up, yellow Duster and barrelled down the highway, bouncing potholes at 160 km an hour. The music was slamming and the muffler roared as, in his perpetual hurry, Murray flew over the lanes in the drunken traffic, his sneakered, lead foot floored on the gas.
Long hair galore whipped my face and my eyes glued shut. Screaming at the top of my lungs with a sangria-stained tongue, I could die in a second but had never felt more alive.
FAN THE FLAMES
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