Troy Queef

A-rumble with palpable potency

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Crisp crystalline snow swaddles the somnambulant scene like a talcum powder duvet, smothering and smoothing all detail into one icy entropy. All is calm, all is white, yet amidst this monochrome magnificence two yellow pools make their presence felt, like flickering floods of mid-air dog piss. But these are not the ammonium outpourings of an electric spaniel; these are piercing puddles of light, emanating for the four square stare of quad headlamps.

The beast to which they are attached squats motionless aside the road, its straight six shooter a-rumble with palpable potency as its fluids eventually achieve the warm embrace of their optimum operating temperatures. Let’s do this thing.

Slot shifter through the knuckly nub of the gate into first, let the clutch begin its connecting clasp. All at once I plant the power pedal and feel the swirling surge of whiteout wheelspin. The back steps out and straight away I catch it with a dab of oppo.

Then it swings the other way and we slide into a ditch. Shit.

My sister’s old BMW 325i E30 Touring was a bitch. And I crashed it. Sorry Claire.