The evening sun was setting on the town, and another successful day of driving the same familiar route for PJ and Mick in Mick’s 1989 Honda Civic was coming to a close. It had been hot and the roads were dried of the abundant April rain, the air conditioning blew a steady cool breeze over the two lads and the car’s bass was hitting Darude’s Sandstorm in all the right places. It had been a good day. A perfect day. The roar of Mick’s mighty engine was heard all throughout town, not a soul had escaped the rapture of his impressive beast borne of steel and oil and sheer fuckin’ masculinity. VROOOMMM VROOOMMMM VRRRR VRRROOOMMMM cried the engine, BRAAAAPPPP BRRRAAAPPP BRRRAAAPPPPP BRR BRRAAPPPP, ejaculated the exhaust! All day long they toured the same circular route of the town, over the Pearse road, up the Port road, down the Main street, over the Pearse road, up the Port road, down the Main street, over the Pearse road, up the Port road, down the Main street, never tiring in their vigour, steadfast in their commitment to make themselves heard by every man, woman and child in a five mile radius, never stopping, not even for chips or anything.
A perfect day.
But all days must come to a close. Even the perfect ones. Mick knew this, and so did PJ. Now they sat, pulled in by the side of the road, both staring forward through the dusty windshield and the hazy, golden Spring sunshine as a young couple walked their dog on the opposite side. In silence they watch.
“Do you think they know?”, said PJ, turning to Mick, “do you think they know about our tiny penises?”
But Mick was silent, still, staring forward.
“Mick?”
Mick exhales, short and sharp, through his nose, his eyes fixed on the horizon line, a shimmering mirage rising from the hot tarmac.
“Aye”, he says at last, “they know”
PJ had a good heart, but he was naive, and a dreamer. That’s what Mick liked about him. That and the fact that he had a smaller penis and no car. And the IQ of an illiterate farmhand. But lately Mick couldn’t shake the idea that maybe there was more to life than circling the same route every day with PJ, listening to Darude Sandstorm and beeping at girls.
“What are we doing PJ?”, he says as his eyes drop slightly.
“We’re diffin’, sham”, PJ replies, a little confused as always.
“No, I mean what are we doing, with our lives?”
“…are we getting chips Mick..?”
“We drive this road every day, revving the engine for an indifferent population, content to just sleepwalk through their tiny existence and ignore the beauty of a shitty sounding engine tearing through a built up residential area, shaking the foundations of their homes like the voice of God, terrible and beautiful. And for what? To hide the fact that we have tiny penises? There must be more to life than that PJ! I’ve seen the way they stare at us, as we obnoxiously speed over actual roads that are used for actual day to day traffic while the guards do absolutely nothing about us. I’ve seen the disdain, the contempt on their faces as you shout something unintelligible out the window at them while they’re just trying to go to the shop or whatever, just minding their own business. They’ll never see us for what we are PJ, they’ll never see beyond our tiny penises and shitty engines”
“So…we’re not getting chips Mick..? Are we going home?”
Mick drops his head, as a slight smile curls on the corners of his mouth. His hands grip the steering wheel, his knuckles white as PJ’s runners, his foot hovering over the accelerator. His mind made up. His penis, tiny. All days must come to a close. Even the perfect ones. But this day wasn’t over yet. A steely resolve set in Mick’s mind and he knew what must be done. One last ride, to freedom and to glory, over the Pearse road, up the Port road, down the Main street, one last time, until like four in the morning, his engine revving, his exhaust ejaculating, until every last person in this god forsaken town was awake, whether they had to be up early or not. He turns to face PJ, who had been staring at him the whole time, his face awash with confusion and concern, and smiling, he says,
“VRROOOOMMM VRMM VRRMM VRROOOMMMM!”
PJ’s face lights up and in response he says,
“BRAPP BRRAAPPP BRRR BRRAAAPPP BRAP PAP PAP PAP PAP!”
Mick presses the accelerator and a plume of dust and glory rises from the rear wheels as they skid out into the road and Darude’s Sandstorm blasts from the stereo. One last ride for the two lads, the two lads with tiny tiny penises and a dream of a better tomorrow
