It was all shits and giggles for the first twenty minutes or so. He was focused on the road as I was focused on rolling a doob, the tunes blasting . Then he tapped me on the shoulder, grinned and then stomped on the accelerator. His 86 LX was done up to the tits. Chirping through all the gears he was up to 100 before I knew it. I wasn't sitting quietly. Too busy hootin' anf hollerin' for him to go faster, booze and our hormones adding at least another 15mph. At one point we ran through an intersection and went airborne. It was fucking intense.
Until we hit the dog. We were probably doing about 80 when it appeared in front of us. I sure as shit didn't see it and I was looking wayyy ahead for cops or people or anything. It was after 4 in the morning and the streets were pretty vacant.
So this dog runs out on the street from a side street. My buddy tries to avoid it but at that speed there was no way he wasn't hitting this pooch. All hell breaks loose as he swerves to avoid Fido. Our back end slides out but not before the poor dog gets clipped in the leg and ass. One of the most vivid memories of the accident was the dog flying through the air.
We spun around about 300 degrees before hitting the first of three parked cars. My drunk-ass friend broke his wrist at this point, spinning the wheel trying to get out of the skid. He screamed like my neighbour's kid did when he was attacked by the swarm of bees. We then took out two signs, one row of newspaper boxes and one traffic light. We bend the light over at its base and the slid up the side of it like some kinda Hollywood stunt team or some shit. Writing this feels equally as intense as three weeks ago when it happened. The trippest thing I've ever been involved with.
We came to a stop in a cloud of airbag dust. My buddy is moaning about his wrist and I am trying to get the ringing out of my ears. Chris(not his real name) then tells me that we have to run. He's drunk, his daddy is the ADA and shit would go down if news breaks out. At this point I don;t give a damn about him, I'm thinking about the dog. I tell him that we need to check on the dog.
The dog was dead. The was a garage close to the street and the dog had hit it and got all smashed up. I felt like puking and Chris just walked around looking at his fucked up car and the dead dog muttering about all sorts of stuff like jail and his dad and something about getting his ass kicked. I puked a little inside my mouth, for real, then told him we needed to call someone. He said no fucking way and calls a taxi to a 24h laundrymat in the stripmall a couple blocks away. He tells me we'd call the cops and report the car stolen. Then he runs to the Stang, opens the trunk and grabs some tools. Nex thing I know he's pulling the ignition out and screwing with the wires outside his steering column. I laugh and know what he's doing. I grab my backpack from the back and when he's done, we book.
We use the payphone outside the mini-mart beside the luandrymat to call 911. Chris tells the cops about the accident, telling him he was driving and saw it happen. Our taxi comes and away we go.
I still remember the dog flying through the air and even worse, that I left it there. I own a dog and can't imagine knowing my dog lying somewhere dead.
We never got caught. I've changed enough details in this to ensure my safety. The thoughts in my mind from that night are more than enough punishment. That shit is for life.
