Sometime around 2:13am...

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Emile came to his senses locked in a battle to the death with a 1972 Datsun B210. The two of them were surrounded by hundreds of older model cars, honking their horns and waving hoods stuffed with money. The Datsun had a clear weight advantage, but Emile had speed. Emile knew he shouldn’t have come to the junkyard at night, nor should he have accepted the drink offered by the Pontiac Bonneville, but now that he was here, he knew he had to win the fight. He was lucky he had briefly studied to be a mechanic, because he knew where the Datsun’s hood release latch was. He dodged a flying seatbelt, and dove in for the kill. Unfortunately he’d forgotten about the Datsun’s brights, and was blinded just long enough for the old automobile to pin him beneath its front tires. It was over now, but for all the regrets Emile had in life, this wasn’t one of them. No, this was the right way to go.

Created: Feb 22, 2014

Tags: quick fiction, datsun, poetry, prose, microfiction

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