It’s About To Get Bumpy

Farlo roared down the expressway at ninety miles an hour. He let go of the steering wheel, shifted in the seat and stuck his hands in his pockets.

“What are you doing, you’re going to get us killed. We’re going nearly a hundred miles an hour and you’re driving no hands.”

Tina, resting comfortably on the front seat, half picked up her head, turned it slightly toward the back seat, and then placed it between her front paws and closed her eyes.

“I’m looking for the keys to your cuffs, kid.” Farlo grabbed hold of the wheel with his left hand drove on to center shoulder barely averting a rear end collision with a 16-wheel oil truck. Joey screamed, “Sweet Mother of God, I promise I’ll start going to Mass if you protect me from this madman.”

Farlo pulled the black and white back into the passing lane. He turned his head slightly over his right shoulder, “See what your whining caused me to do?”

“I wasn’t whining.”

“You need Kleenex for your tears.”

“I wasn’t crying. I have an allergy. What happened?”

“You made me miss my exit. You better hang on, this is going to be tricky.”

“What are you going to do? Get us killed, maimed, burned over ninety percent of our body?”

“You are such a worry wart. Where’s your trust in your mentor. I taught this stunt fifteen years ago when I was teaching aggressive driving at Filo’s aggressive driving camp. The trick is to get going fast enough to roll over four times, cut your wheels to the left as you roll over for the fourth time, and push the accelerator to the floor as you come up. The timing has to be perfect or the fuel tank will explode.”

“How many times have you done this?” said Joey.

“Never. It was only theoretical. I know it can be done, I’m not sure anybody has ever done it. If we pull it off, Filo will be impressed.”

“What if we don’t pull it off?”

“Filo’s really good about funerals.”

“I’m too young to die.”

“Too late. On the count of four, put a death grip on the door handle,” said Farlo.

“There are no handles in the backseat of a police car,” hollered Joey.

“Oh yeah. I forgot about that. Tough, kid. It’s about to get bumpy.”

The black and white cut to the shoulder, Farlo brought the black and white to within inches of the cement restraining barrier.

“I can’t look, you can’t jump the cement barrier,” shouted Joey.

“Oh no? Watch this,” said Farlo increasing speed to one hundred fifteen miles an hour. The road took a slight turn to the left. Farlo turned the wheels slightly to left, the front wheel caught the lip of the cement barrier and the black and white was airborne. The rear right tire caught the cement barrier on the way down and flipped the black and white. It rolled over once, twice, three times when Farlo hit the accelerator. Within seconds they were racing down the highway in opposite direction from which they were originally heading.

“Go figure, it’s only three roll overs. Joey? Joey?”

“I’m on the floor. Did we die? I know this isn’t heaven. It must be hell. It’s the only place that will take you.”

“Suck it up, kid. You’re alive, right?”

“I don’t know.”

“Were a half mile from the Last Chance. You play it right, I’ll put a good word in for you with Filo when he evaluates you.”

“Who’s Filo?”

Who’s Filo? Will they rescue Harry J? How will Joey do on his evaluation?

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