mindin’ my business, when this absolute dumpster fire of a pickup — I’m talkin’ rustier than a stripper pole at a condemned dive bar — comes flying past doing Mach Jesus. The thing sounded like it was held together with hope, half a zip tie, and maybe a whispered apology to Satan. Engine was squealing like it just found out safe words are optional.
Couple minutes later? That same busted-ass truck comes BACK, flying like it caught feelings, and right behind it: three flashing, siren-blaring friends lookin’ to take this whole situation from fast to furious. I mean they were on his tail like a drunk ex lookin’ for closure.
I had front row seats from the lot — pants halfway down, popcorn in one hand, moral compass nowhere to be found. The whole chase had more raw tension than backdoor prom night in a borrowed van.
And then… it happened. The pickup gave one last moan — like a porn star faking it after 45 minutes of missionary — and then silence. I swear the motor blew so hard it probably shot a piston straight through the dashboard and into another dimension. That thing didn’t just leave the group chat… it blocked everyone, deleted the app, and threw the phone in the river. That has to be why the chase ended — because the poor bastard's getaway vehicle literally nutted its last bolt.
No comments:
Post a Comment