Nick’s Badass Truck

Were Nick a believer he'da said,

out loud,

Thank God for the truck!

He would'a said it were someone in the truck

with him, someone who knew he attended church

religiously.

Alas, germ-panicked social-distancing prohibited

passengers, and, if nothing else, Nick

felt obligated to keep up the appearance

of abidance—even to the extent

of forbidding the wife of his richest client

from nesting her sensational ass

on its obscenely accommodating

Moroccan leather

seat.

And with the panic postponing not only

court sessions

but client visits to his office, as well,

no way would he display himself

prancing on Main Street with some pussy

mask--

at least not until the Darth Vader silk one

he’d ordered from Amazon TWO WEEKS AGO

came.

Meanwhile,

all he had left with which to reassure himself

of his indisputable superiority

over every other living creature on Earth...well,

save of course Judge Cornwallis,

was

the truck.

The truck he took in lieu of his kick-ass fee

for getting Robbie Bob Bidet’s capital

murder charge

reduced to involuntary manslaughter--

yuk yuk--

was a kick-ass toy for this big

boy.

Power stroke ‘06 Diesel Bomber without

a muffler, so dayum loud, Robbie Bob said,

yew kin heah me shift into sixth a couple miles

down the road... n’ when ah pass someone, n’

ahm doin’ 2400 rpms n’ mah tailpipe hits theah

doh’ they gon’ shit theah britches, Mr. Nick!

Inside now, behind the darkened windows,

he changes into his Kerouac lumberjack Carhartt

shirt, with the scarlet MAGA cap concealing his

signature slicked-back thinning

grease-soaked hair, and breathes deeply,

checks his lips in the mirror for signs of blue,

breathes deeply

turns the ignition

pumps the gas…ignition...again...

SHIT!

                                                                                                         m.d. paust