Drag Pt. 2

Raad's vision blurred, the neon traffic lights dancing nauseatingly in front of his eyes. His body felt weightless as the Mustang flew through the air.

The silent scream ringing in his ears came to a screeching halt as metal met gravel with a sickening crunch, with only the thin strap of his seat-belt keeping his rag doll body from being flung out in a hail of shattered windscreen. Red sparks burst on contact as the car lurched again into the air, landing hard, skidding fifty feet with pieces scraped off in its wake, and settled finally with all four tires on the road.

Shaking his head slowly, Raad winced as shards of glass from his now disintegrated windows dug deeper into his face. Biting back swears and tears, he tried to pluck out the bigger pieces, and set his eyes on his attacker.

The bulky black Ford 150 stood menacingly at the traffic lights, steam billowing in the cold night air from the heat vents on its wide hood.

Although the truck's front steel grill had dented significantly from the collision, the Mustang's side had taken the brunt of the brutal impact. The passenger-side door had caved in and the bright red paint had been cruelly scratched off, revealing the dull bruised silver underneath.

As Raad stared, the 150's driver-side door swung open and a pair of heavy boots thudded onto the ground. Raad gritted his teeth, anticipating the fresh hell he was about to face.

Stepping out from behind the door and armed with an assault rifle, Haji sneered down at the mutilated Mustang and it's driver. His thick mustachioed lips curled into a scage smile, Haji sauntered towards his prey, chuckling at his near certain victory.

"Raadi," Haji drawled in an almost sing-song voice. "You honestly thing you could get away from us?"

His boots crunched the glass on the asphalt as he taunted.

"From your family?"

Drag

Blood pounding in his ears, Raad's hand clawed at the cold metal of the gear knob, shifting hard into third. The engine howled with a deafening din and lurched forward, pressing him into the hot leather of his seat. Tires chewing the tarmac, Raad's ruby red Mustang, growling its V8 tenor, tore into the chilly November night.

Not to be outdone, Taha cackled while twisting the valve of the blue cylinder nestled at his side, unleashing nitrous-oxide to course through the pipes of his venomous green EvoX. Thirstily sucking in gallons of oxygen, the Mitsubishi chased after the glowing red embers of Raad's taillights.

Neon flames sputtering from the exhausts, Taha pulled level to the roaring Mustang and peered with eyes screaming from illicit chemicals at Raad staring laser-straight ahead, face contorted with concentration.

Too much is on the line, Raad agonized through gritted teeth. Slamming his heavy boot heal down till the pedal clanged against the metal floor, his crimson beast bellowed with hot rage and inched its nose ahead of the turbo screeching machine barreling alongside it.

The flickering lights of the intersection came closer at a sickening pace. With the end of the grueling trial in sight, Raad's knuckles whitened as his grip tightened around the steering wheel. Clenched jaw set in silent prayer, he willed the Mustang to go faster, just a bit more faster.

Taha's eyes flashed to the rising threat. His drug addled body twitching with every slight movement, a guttural lament escaped his throat.

Sensing victory drawing nearer, the Mustang thundered louder, a pack of rabid hounds under the hood, maws foaming, eager for the kill. Raad's vision tunneled until he could only see the fulgurating traffic lights. Tasting the rising bile, his mind blackened to a singular purpose: winning tonight.

Blaring white lights from his left snapped him out of his war-trance, and Raad just caught a split-second glimpse as the massive pickup truck smashed into the side of the Mustang.

Warrior Women

Dimmed lights. Black shrouds on otherwise welcoming furniture. Incense heavy in the air. Home decked for funerals of family long lost. Sorrow spilled fresh every year.

The ninth night, and the women in black huddle methodically on the carpet. Heirloom diaries are cracked open, fingers caress verses written by their mothers and their mothers' mothers. Mourning rises from within deep bellies and combusts on meeting air. Family poem, more sung than recited, give voice once more to the ancient matriarchs whose hearths first hosted black battlements.

The verses crescendo, anguish reverberating with beating chests. Banners bearing eternal sigils of peace will remain defiantly unfurled until the passing of the tenth day of war. But the war returns next year, every year.

The women will welcome it home.


- Published in Hobocamp Review Flash Around the Campfire Competition
https://hobocampreview.blogspot.com/2018/10/hasan-jamal-winner-of-flash-around.html

Chronic CA Syndrome

The Pseudo-Scientific Journal of Radical Medicine.

I bring to your notice the not so well known malady so far named "Chronic CA Syndrome".

A truly terrifying disease, the symptoms fascinatingly manifest in two seemingly separate ways.

Case 1:
The patient suffers from acute depression, hopelessness and sense of inferiority. Some patients have been observed constantly muttering the phrase "kahan phans gaya hou mein", usually preceded and followed by swearing.
When questioned, patients cited loss of high-school friends to prestigious universities, "shitty" studying environments in "third-grade glorified tuition centers", "crap" teachers who "mess up concepts", and constant failure as the top reasons for chronic moroseness.
Patients display overly "downer" behavior and become "boring" conversationalists as their tendency to complain sharply rises.
Treatment is to "get over yourself", "accept and be grateful for your life" and to severely avoid "competition with your friends, coworkers and everyone really".

Case 2:
The patient becomes what experts can only describe as "an insufferable asshole".
The patient's ego suffers severe and in some cases irreversible expansion. This results in increased spewage of "verbal bile and bullshit". The patient's mind becomes addled and the patient firmly believes that only they know every detail about all careers, qualifications, the economy.
Further deterioration causes the patient to launch into un-asked for lectures on how "everyone is messing up their careers and lives" and should only follow what they are deliriously saying.
Unfortunately at this stage, the patient emits toxic fumes (category: gianticus assholicus) which causes people, animals and even some species of plants around the patient to flee and abhor the patient.
Unfortunately there is no cure. Such patients must be quarantined immediately. Preferably until they learn to "stfu". Or forever, nobody would really care.