The Dark Necessities of a Lonesome Chameleon
The Black Keys thunder from pulsating speakers as Rex scorches us across a parched stretch of desolation. Madness glints in his eyes as he ups the volume and floors the accelerator, pushing the jittery needle past eighty-eight. The engine spits and roars. In the mirror I see a cloud of black exhaust streaming from the ass end of the restored Tradesman. The imagery has me reminiscing of raven hair and eyes that smoldered like dying coals.“Fuckin’ wild!” Rex growls, hands drumming out a furious...
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