My evening letter to Renfield
The 2005 Mustang GT is pure sex. You can tell that it was built by stone-crazy Torque Lovers, and at half the price of a Vette I'll use that extra $20,000 to crank it up into a genuine Demon and stomp the guts out of every Son-Of-A-Banker rice-burner who's stupid enough to rev his phony muffler tip at a stoplight.
I love the fact that the interior looks exactly like mine. Even the goddamn speed gauge is the same, with some neat trick lighting thrown in for added zest. The entire enterprise is Zesty, the way real wasabi burns your sinuses, and I can hardly wait until the day I have enough time and money to convert the BeBop from a rust pile into a real car again. Tak and I will go to the auto show here, unless the entire city is buried in an Ice Storm. Do you know what real cold is like, brother? For weeks here the high has not exceeded 20, and unlike those flat plains out west we get real snow storms, bubba, you're walking down the street one night and WHAM a bucket of white powder covers your face and turns the streets into a free-for-all of panicked old women and 40-Something SUV Identity Whores. I was Born and Raised in the mountains, brother, and we never got snow the way we do now in Anytown.
But that was pointless. My writing gets savage whenever I'm reading Thompson. "Kingdom of Fear," indeed, and where are the text books I ordered online, goddammit? I paid those dirty bastards with real cash, and I expect Results soon.
My life for the week of Mardi Gras will be chronicled on the NROTC website, for our Drill Team will be competing at Tulane during that wild week-long orgy of booze and beads. We are traveling straight into the Heart of the Beast with a busload of trained killers and rifles at the peak of hunting season, and when the hammer falls, the Warriors will have their way. Count on it.
More later, or when I'm feeling less sane. Tell Russel that he is a Warrior, as well, and that he is welcome to pray at my alter of SPEED and POWER anytime he comes this way.