text: [Themes: modern, thriller, anti-hero]
  
  You stagger outside, final amounts of your cash spent. Whiskey taking hold, movement is a blur. Your head is caught in a spin. It's like being a kid again, allowing your friends to spin you to kingdom come on the tire swing. Twist the rope, hold on tight. Let Billy give you quite the fright!
  
  Only this time the spinning is of your own making, and the absence of friends is noted. Vision coming in and out, the Challenger appears a dream in the distance. It's parked between two flat tops, a symbol of American muscle nestled by the common man's vehicle. It was your grandfathers, the only piece of family history still remaining, the people themselves long gone as well.
  
  You're drunk. You're well aware of that fact. Not the drunkest you've ever been, and certainly not as drunk as you'll ever be. Spend enough time at something and you end up getting pretty damn good at it. 10,000 hours, they say. That's how long it takes to master a skill. Hell, you've put a solid chunk of time in over the last couple of years. After all, you started two years with a fake. Freddy Harkless was your name. 5'11, 160 lbs. The photo of Freddy looked fairly similar to you, brown eyes, dark hair. You were only prevented entry one time, and that was because an asshole acquaintance called you by your real name. Ol' shit-for-brains isn't on your friend list any more. Probably for the best.
  
  Your hands reach for the keys at your back pocket. Fumbling, you pull them out. They slip from your grasp and land in a crash. It reminds you of a drummer slamming a stick down on the high hat. A giggle accompanies the thought as you bend down to pick up the keys.
  
  "Doing alright there, cowboy?"
  
  A woman's voice fills the night air. It's soft and sweet, dripping with honey as your Sunday School teacher might say. It's sensual, comforting. Instantly, images rush into your mind, ones that shouldn't be so closely connected to thoughts of church. It's the voice wise men avoid. It's the voice leading ships astray, siren songs of the sea. It's the voice you desperately want to continue speaking.
  
  You find the woman standing at the edge of the parking lot. She's wrapped in a dark coat, traveling down just past her knees, her bare legs sticking out from there, feet strapped in high heels. The buttons of her coat are unbuttoned just low enough to show ample skin, and a pair of breasts that causes the mind to wander. Her blonde hair is tied high in a loose bun.
  
  You close the distance a few steps. "Doing just fine, milady," you answer, mirroring her approach, although you may have put too much medieval into it.
  
  She laughs. It suddenly feels a lot warmer outside. "Hah! Leaving so soon? I've still got a few dances left. I'm sure a polite man like yourself wouldn't leave a lady all on her own."
  
  "Lady, I've been spreading good manners in this place for the past four hours. I'm about all out of manners."
  
  "I know," she answers. "I saw you in there. Are you willing to hear my professional opinion?"
  
  "I don't know if my insurance covers that."
  
  Again, she laughs. You wish it wouldn't stop. "This one's on the house. Next one, though, will cost you."
  
  "Alright. Lay it on me," you playfully say.
  
  "You look sad."
  
  That's it? Not how you expected the flirtatious conversation to unfold. You look sad. Hell, lady, that's just my face. Not all of us have the capital for rearranging it, making a perfect nose or puffy lips. No, you're stuck with this one.
  
  If that's the way you come across, it's slightly worrying. Even if you are sad, you have the common decency to hide it from the rest of mankind. Only those desperate for attention broadcast it. Before deleting Instagram from your phone, you saw it all the time. Topics like depression, anxiety, discrimination: people use it for their own gain. Feel sorry for me you sorry fucks. Don't forget to like, subscribe, and donate to the channel! The topic of manners was brought up by your sudden conversationalist; you're continuing to show them by keeping your problems yours, and not burdening others with them.
  
  "I hope your pillow talk is a little better than that," you answer brushing off her serious tone. She bites.
  
  "And what makes you think you'll get that far?"
  
  You take the chance to use her words against her. "Because I'm sad, and you're not going to let a sad, inebriated good-looking fellow like myself spend the night alone, are you? Good manners goes both ways."
  
  You're met with another patented laugh. "You're direct. I like that. I much prefer that to the 'let me buy you a drink' spiel, as if we ladies don't know when a man is trying to get us drunk."
  
  You shrug. She continues.
  
  "Besides, vices come in all shapes and forms."
  
  "Yeah they do," you answer, exaggerating the motion of checking her out.
  
  "Funny. But you know what I mean," she answers, lightly touching one nostril with her pointer finger. This dame's got a nose on her, if you know what I mean. "I left my keys inside. Would you be a gentleman?"
  
  "Sure," you say closing the little distance left between you two. "There may be a small rental fee though..."
  
  "Sharing is caring," the woman replies. Her hands dig into her pocket. As she does so, you notice her nails are painted long and bright red, like those on the fingertips of a Barbie doll. Interesting. She has the means for a bump without a set of keys. Dip a pinky in the powder and find yourself a scoop. Does that mean she is the one who needs company? She may have called you out, but it may just be a matter of projecting. Easier to see problems if they wear another's face.
  
  "What's your name?" you ask as she pulls a small bag of white powder out.
  
  "Daisy."
  
  Surely that's not a real name, but it would be rude to assume. It's just normal enough that it could be real, and exotic enough to be used on the stage. You don't press further. She reaches out with a painted fingernail hand. Bright red flashes in the night. You hand over your keyring to the Challenger, the only thing remaining of your family. She dips the car key into the bag, pulling a sizable lump onto the key tip.
  
  In a sound not unlike a breath of air between a good cry, Daisy snorts the white powder clean from the key, even giving it a lick to ensure nothing goes wasted. Next she passes both to you. The plastic bag is small. It's like the one that a pair of cufflinks would be sold in. In front of you, Daisy sniffles, the drip affecting her already. When life gives you lemons...
  
  > refuse the offer
  "On a second thought—" you start. Before you can finish the sentence, Daisy snatches the cocaine back. Either you're more drunk than you thought or she has crazy fast fingers. Your mind begins to wander...
  
  "That's ok. More for me!" This time her pinky dips into the bag, scooping a small mound of blow like a miniature Cat excavator.
  
  You begin to question the need for your keys, but then you stop. Whatever moment you shared would be ruined by its dissection. Some things aren't meant to be, and it looks like there's nothing meant for you and Daisy. First impressions stick with a person. You imagine visiting her parents for the first time. Son, I know you mean well. My daughter has certainly fallen head-over-heels for you. But tell me this, son. Why the fuck did you turn down her coke? That's not very gentleman-like at all.
  
  "Drive safe," Daisy says, forever closing the moment. Door's shut. The lid's sealed. Your future will never cross paths. At least you recognize it now. Too many people enter and leave your life without notice, mostly leaving.
  
  "Wouldn't get behind the wheel if I had too much," you assure her, staggering back to the Challenger. As you use the key to unlock the door, you catch sight of a small bit of white powder. As clean as she licked, there's still some remaining. If you weren't going to partake with Daisy, why would you do so now? But still, it's there for you.
  
  Your tongue finds the key.
  
  The taste of metal fills your mouth, like that of accidentally swallowing a coin. The blow is a sharp taste. It assaults the back of your throat like drinking a soda too quickly, cold, as if the effect of Everfrost gum multiplied by a thousand. A rush of energy runs through your body. Suddenly, wide awake, you want nothing more than to take the Challenger on the road. Turn the key, pump the gas. Let the baby run free and run fast.
  
  The door unlocks and you find your place in the driver's seat. Door's shut. The lid's sealed. Unlike with Daisy, you're not aware of the finality placed upon you by getting behind the wheel. Your life is guided by small actions, hardly changing the course on their own. Put together, however, they make one hell of a difference. Down enough booze, top it off with a little coke, and attempt to drive? Yeah, this train's running off the tracks or in your case, driving off the road.
  
  The Challenger, the only thing of your family still remaining will find a nice telephone line to park its hood into. You, the only living member of your family will soon be unable to boast as such. You don't know these things as you pull the Challenger into reverse. The radio starts playing a hit Velvet Revolver song. You sing along as you drive to your death.