Vehicular nastiness
On holiday in Spain, my friend had been teasing us about a so-called 'road of death' that we'd have to journey down each and every day. It turns out this entire stretch of concrete is an accident blackspot, with the central reservation missing large sections and the cliff face on one side of the road being erratically decorated with car paint, glass & seemingly, blood.

Being one of the many retards in the world who simply hasn't bothered learning to drive, I'm much more terrified of having no control of my impending doom. So it's with this deep seated fear that I find myself in the rear of one of two taxis driving us into town for the evening.

Everything's going well until the driver of the car in front radio's over 'Race! Race!' (which I am hoping is Spanish for 'slower! cautious!'). I was wrong.

The two fucking bastards start to race one another just as we pull onto the 'road of death'... I look up and see that we are doing over 100 and are less that 6 inches from the cab in front. Some quick maths based on braking distance, reaction times & the contents of my bowls leads me to the conclusion that I am, for want of a better word, fucked.

I start to panic and wind my window down in the feeble hope that it might slow us down, my eyes are fixed are on the brake lights of the car in front, waiting for the quick flash of red before I am liberally splashed across the bonnet of a Mondeo.

10 of the sweatiest minutes known to man pass and then, it happens. The car in front brakes - we brake... he swerves - we swerve. I decide instantly that I want to die with no dignity whatsoever and launch into the trillest most child like scream ever heard from a grown man.

My friends jump, the taxi driver jumps and the people at the bar we had just pulled up outside of stare nervously at the idiot in the back of a cab who seemingly screams when he gets to his destination.

I didn't pull.
( moonjam, Fri 26 Nov 2004, 0:14, Reply)