Yesterday, I hopped into my ‘67 Cutlass because it’s the only thing I got left and I got on the interstate and I knew I had to do something different so I picked up my seventies vintage citizens band radio. I called up ahead and had the highway patrol set up a twenty foot ramp with twelve school busses behind, just south of the exit to Beresford. And I told that goddamn trooper, "you’d better have that sonofabitchin’ thing set up in five minutes because that’s where I’m gonna be pal, and make sure each of those busses has a bomb in it. I mean if it’s worth doing it’s worth doing right, eh?" And so I smash the petal to the bare rust of the floor and as soon as I see the ramp over the horizon I know the cops screwed it up but what the hell, I take my boots, kick out my windshield, get a tank of nitrous oxide out of the back seat (hey, where’d the hell did that come from) put a syringe on the end and stab that sucker right into the carburetor. That nitro sweetens the ride, my friend, the engine snaps like a bomb and the tailpipe explodes a black plume of Satan’s Best that kills the grass for miles around and even at 100 mph, I get some more rubber and the wheels howl and I’m riding a rocket. I take the ramp at about 160 miles per and the impact shakes all the rust off the quarter panels and my head hits the top of the steering wheel. Then I’m airborne in pure black silence, unable to hear the busses explode below me, engulfing the rear of my car as I pass over. The car gently pitches to the side as my knuckles tighten on the wheel and I dread the landing that seems a half hour away. After the last bus explodes I keep flying and I finally crash a perfect four point landing on the concrete and the hood, doors and the fenders explode off the car in every direction. I see down the road they have a trophy girl with a bikini, huge teeth and lots of blonde hair holding a giant magnum bottle of champagne in a winners circle for me. I skid to eighty per, see her weeping and waving for me to come back, come back. I take the bottle, pop the cork with my thumb and drain it in one long gulp. Then I let out a belch that sounds like God’s own thunderclap. Down the road I see a trooper waiting to give me a high five and I remember how that ramp was incorrectly set up. I wield that empty bottle like a polo mallet and crack that dumb bastard right across the jaw line and he folds like an origami unicorn to the ground. I just keep screaming along and in the sideview I see my boy’s got up and blood’s squirting from his neck in thick ropes but he still gives me the thumbs up, ‘cuz he knows I’m the shit. And so I scream into Royal’s Stadium in Kansas City and some shit eater in the stands says "let’s see the kid hit," and then a dozen more say yeah and then the whole doomed stadium is chanting so I walk up to home plate grab the lumber out of the batter’s hand and tell the pitcher to let on fly and none of that pussy shit, jackass. He lets one rip and I let the bat go and the motion makes the air electric, but I miss, and the world is silent except the chuckle of catcher so I take the butt end of the bat and give him a sharp jab to the chest that knocks him flat out. I say, "You won’t need that prick this time, lunch box." He leans back and lets loose the pitch of his pathetic life and I crack that puny little pill right out of the stadium, a high, fine, line drive that was still climbing as it leveled New Orleans with a catastrophic sonic boom. I turn around, break the bat over the umpire’s head and use the ragged ends to pick my teeth. The crowd goes crazy, ape-shit bonkers and they hit the field and they are running to me and they want to pick me up on their shoulders. So I snatch a half gallon of Everclear out of my back pocket, pour the whole thing in my mouth, pull out my lighter and turn my face into one giant flame thrower. The first couple dozen people catch fire but they still keep coming and I just decide to haul ass on out of there, because the scene was boring me anyway. So I step out into the parking lot, grab some old fart out of the front seat of his cherried out GTO (Gran Turismo Omilagato), peel the top off like the lid off a can of anchovies and have myself a seat, and just then I realized I destroyed the upholstery because my spine was growing spikes and I said to myself, "Oh shit, not this again." So I mash the accelerator to the floor and I shoot out of that tin horn town like a missile and I ball that jack to goddamn NYC because for a freak like me that’s the only place to be. I pull into town out of a black sunset and park my car right in front of CBGB’s and walk in. Some runt is up on stage singing about his the ills of society and I just head toward the front row, crawl up on stage, grab his scrawny neck in my scaly hands and launch my forehead through his face, cracking his skull like a soft boiled egg. I grab the mike and I let loose with the pipes baby, shaking that runt like a maraca while I bust into ninenty-nine verses of "Six Days on the Road," ninety six of them so demonic and foul that a gang of marines in the parking lot fresh back from the Philippines stop going at it with their hookers to cover their ears, take a vow of chastity and head out to the nearest monastery. I finish up with a banshee yell and rip off my blood-stained shirt to reveal a collection of scales, warts and bristles I didn’t have when I woke up. The jaws drop in the audience and I yell, "what the hell you looking at?" and they all shit their pants and pass out. But the bartender, the treacherous scum gives me a look and I give him one back with my evil eyes and he smashes a bottle of tequila over his own head. I walk behind the bar and help myself to a couple bottles of Wild Turkey, guzzle them, and light myself 20 cigarettes, raise my eyebrow and envision my cracked and insane planet. So I’m pleased with my new telepsychotic powers and decide I’m gonna take ‘em out on the road. And I send out an ugly thought wave (general negativity) and people just and damn if all that hate doesn’t get into the collective unconscious and sets off a psychic chain reaction that sets the world to weeping and gnashing of teeth. But damn it if the authorities don’t figure out who is behind it (same thing happened last week: guy from Brady, Texas, just went berserk, made it impossible for politicians to lie; they managed to cut his head off before the whole world collapsed.) So they sic a special band of cops on me, known here on out as the Confidence Men, a crack platoon of sadists who dealt in the live organ trade (kidneys being the hot ticket item, ten grand for a working pair, two slits in the lower back and you wake up with a rubber tube hanging out of the wounds and a friendly message to call 911 if you want to live), now they do back alley, no anesthesia lobotomies for the government. Those assholes tail me into an alley, but I use my claws and climb up the side of the brick building, unzip, let flow a golden arch of 104 proof urine, drop a match and I hear nothing but screams. But one comes through sweet and clear saying, like a church bell on a crisp Sunday morning, "please, if I could just see my old Kentucky home again...." I turn around, pure dawn on the horizon like a gasoline fire, and I pick the pimento sun out of the sky to use as a garnish in my next million gallon martini.