What? How could that be? He's not on the sidewalk. I hit the brakes and looked in the rearview mirror. There, sitting patiently in the street, was The Bastard, laughing at me. "It's going to take more than you got to pop me you sucka fool," said The Bastard. Horrified, I put the shifter in Reverse and screeched backward, running right over The Bastard. I didn't even bother to lift up my truck. (Normally, I'd never drag backward anywhere because that's just bad manners when the ladies are present.) Once again, I railed over The Bastard: He didn't budge. I came to a screeching halt, dead even with the bus stop. I hesitated to look at my fans, for I knew that I had not given my best performance. I sat there a moment, thinking that maybe my streak had ended and that I should hang it all up. I thought maybe today was the day that I put away my draggin' shoes, my theme music, and even my lucky afro wig. The horn of the approaching transit bus snapped me out of my haze. I eyed The Bastard once again and decided to go at him one more time. I could hear the college girls cheering me on, their sweet voices motivating me. The Bastard was about to be beaten like a redheaded stepchild and didn't know it. With the transit bus rounding the corner, I had to move fast. Along with my new plan of attack, I would also need reinforcements. New theme music was in order, so I grabbed my CD case and found my secret weapon. I popped the CD into the head unit and waited for just the right moment to launch my assault. I waved farewell to my fans, the ladies blowing me kisses in the wind. As Mel Torme bellowed from my system, I stabbed the gas pedal. My rockers grinded across the asphalt, glowing red-hot from the friction. I smiled a vicious smile, the kind of smile that Jack Nicholson would give from his courtside seat to a poor player on the New York Knicks whenever they threw up a brick in the Lakers' House. I laid my rockers flat and hard, letting every last breath of air out of my suspension as I approached The Bastard. He was scared, and I knew it. I can't be sure, but as I came closer, I think I almost saw him cry in agony at the thought of my vengeance raining down upon him. And then something snapped.
I let up. I felt the sharp twinge of humility in my actions. For God's sake, I grew a conscience. I actually felt bad for this poor soul whose only mission in life was to keep peace on the street. For a split second, I thought about aborting my mission and driving away in shame. But then I thought about the time that I ordered a plain chicken sandwich from the chicken joint and they put mayonnaise on it. That changed everything. I was pissed. I wasn't just going to pop off this Bastard - I was going to ruin him.
I hammered the accelerator again. Right before the front of my rocker had a chance to tear into The Bastard's armor, I lifted the front of my truck up and pulled the most vicious and evil move anyone ever pulled on a road dot before. I came at The Bastard full on Schwarzenneger-style and grabbed his ass with my rear bumper, strangling him off the asphalt. He didn't even get a chance to fly to the safety of the sidewalk nearby. He was impaled upon my rear bumper. Sure, my bumper was mangled and destroyed, but I got him. I got him good. I didn't even make my usual victory lap past the bus stop. I knew I had won and took off down the road, burritos and enchiladas on my mind.
The Bastard now sits with his cousins on a shelf in my office, merely a shadow of his former self. Oh yeah: If any of you are a member of the local police or highway department, a local judge, or President of the United States of America, I made this entire story up. So there.