ruffrider: Vanishing Point

 

 

 

Title art by L.H. Grey

 

 

Listen to Suggested Audio

 

Dr. Dre “Let Me Ride (Instrumental)”

 

 

 

 

Ladies, gentlemen and all those in transition
Please start your engines
We’ll soon have them revving
Adjust your seats
Remember kids seatbelts aren’t considered street
Don’t forget to check those mirrors
And turn the key in her ignition
Be careful not to flood the transmission
I would try to refrain from shifting stick too soon if I were you
As accidents have been known to happen when driving in such treacherous conditions

 

Thunder only happens when it’s raining apparently
Blundering percussion as you commence to hydroplane erratically
Easing off the gas as any traction is conceded
Reaction speed is critical
As the umbilical is pulled swiftly taut
Once you commit to over steering

 

Should you begin to veer off centre
Then you could be dealt into a fender bender
As the beaten track cuts anything but slack jack
And this vendor tends to tender distemper
Is a ruffrider
No question
Won’t be going easy on first time offenders
Will victimize upstarts who choose to spurn her agenda

 

And about that agenda…

 

Well let’s say she harbors rather vast curiosity for velocity
Is speed demon and will release the clutch if she doesn’t care much for your philosophy
Has been known to court all kinds of madness
And undertake various atrocities
Has no time for flighty fools whose flirtations endorse frivolity
It’s a short walk to the chimney
But an even shorter drive
And this baby runs unleaded
On a full tank with blacked out headlamps
Which happen to match the Cimmerian shade of her eyes

 

There’s always that shot of nitrous
And she might just permit you to witness her fitness
If you can harness this frisky slick mistress
Ride the sprawling trail she blazes like a getaway driver
Pedal to the metal as you wrestle with sheer horsepower
Sucking up emissions and to hell with carbon footprints
For the rush is just too much as she gusts gruffly into full sprint
Zero straight through sixty like a slick of alloy mist she shifts
Drifting like a gypsy as she varnishes the open road through juxtaposing hieroglyphs
Neck and neck with twisted scrap metal
Edging in front as she kisses the asphalt
With not one intention to settle

 

Her bodywork besmirched by bursts of burnt amber rust
Not the shoddy work of cowboys
But chosen veil for her alloy crust
This mean machine she always starts
Regardless of the weather
Is a ruffrider
No question
Has no time for circumvention
Would much rather play chicken
And leave the kind of bold impression
Through the kind of bold expression
That bends this ride or die drive-by towards a whole host of obsession
And all detours lead to the deadest of ends

 

Best not be praying to attend the premier of her hydraulics
As her need for speed precedes the need to make slack crackers bleed
Her desire for cross fire is hyperbolic
Will leave you stalling in blackest of shade
As she accelerates clean away
This beauty will not be purloined
And she will beat you to the vanishing point

 

 

 

 

 

Richard Charles Stevens

 

Keeper of The Crimson Quill

 

 

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