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thrown back against the backrest. At first I was too tired to care or even suspect. Then, a
little while later, I thought it a bit strange that he was traveling so fast around bends and
passing other cars at the speed that he was doing.
I quipped that he might be a race car driver. He laughed and said with a strange smile, “You
are right. I am a pro racer for New Zealand. Don't mind me, I just cannot drive slowly.”
Oh great! I groaned inwardly. “Oh, that's amazing,” I lied, pretending to be interested.
“What do you race?”
“Stock cars,” he said absently as we squealed around a hairpin bend, narrowly missing an
old, gnarled tree on the side of the road. I could have sworn I saw the tree flinch. My feet
were pressed up against the forward firewall. The young driver saw this and smiled, “Don't
be nervous, mate! I have never had a prang!” Not yet, you obviously haven't, matey, I said
to myself under my breath.
Up ahead I saw, with a sinking heart, we were rapidly approaching a blind rise and an old
bus that was laboring up the hill, enveloped in a pall of black smoke. Oh Christ, he was
speeding up! On the bloody blind rise too! This was suicide. I tried in vain to smile calmly
and assess the situation, yes; we could make this, ha-ha, ha-ha. He snuck a side glance at
me. I wasn't fooling anybody. I must have been white, for he almost burst out laughing,
“Hang on then, mate, this one could be fun!” as he now threw the gear down to third and,
with the engine screaming fit to blow a gasket, streaked past the bus so close I was afraid
to look. I could have sworn I heard a scraping sound as we passed the near stationary old
girl.
I was about to exhale in relief. We were clean on the opposite side of the road doing about a
hundred miles an hour with no exaggeration, when this white truck appeared from nowhere
over the crest of the hill. Instantly, the maniac swung the wheel over and squealed in front
of the bus, missing certain death by a rat's whisker, while the truck driver sat on his horn
waving his fist violently at us. The maniac roared with laughter. He wasn't fazed in the
least; in fact, he sped up even more. I was impressed to a point but soon became terrified
again as we rapidly approached a bend in the road he just surely had to slow down for. As
I feared, he merely sped up even more, grinding the pedal to the floor, his eyes glittering in
the fading light, a wild look in his face.
My feet were almost up to the glove compartment at this stage as we took the corner. We
skidded and slewed around, slithering almost into the grassy verge on the opposite side.
This time I yelled out in anger and fear, “Jesus Christ man! Do you want to kill us? Would
you mind slowing down? I'm really not used to this speed!”
How we did not roll is beyond me. I was very frightened now, which turned to anger.
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