If you've never broken two hundred miles per hour on the open road, get the fuck out of my cabin right now. No, really, put down the plate and take your faggot boots and leave. You don't deserve man-parts. What's that? Oh, you have broken two hundred? Well that's still pitiful compared to the three-hundred I shattered on the Isle of Man. (They call it that for a reason.) But go ahead, have another steak and more wine. I'm just getting started.
When you're going two-hundred-plus on a country road, the foreground becomes an afterimage, like film stock going awry on its reel. You can't tell a bull from a goddamn barn. Fortunately the skyline stays still, and if there are hills, windmills, watertowers, or any protrusions in the distance to serve as landmarks, and if you aren't dumb as past, you should find your way from town to town and back again. So it went that I screamed through Fistwood in the Stingray, then through New Surrey, then Cattlewhip, all in forty minutes' time. Few cars came near me, since it's never busy round these parts. A couple times I swerved into the oncoming lane so people coming toward me would remember they were living.
About fifty minutes in, I saw a dust devil tonguing down an empty field. Seeing as there wasn't a ditch dividing me from that field, I swerved off the main road and drove toward the dust devil. In my childhood ignorance--hey, you can't read fucking everything--I thought I would spin into the vortex as though it were a goddamn tornado. I don't need to explain why. Needless to say, that didn't happen. By the time I had caught up with it, half-blinded by a flurry of copper-colored soil, the warble of police sirens emanated from the road.