O l i v e r B e n j a m i n
save doomed babies, hikers with broken legs crawling miles back to
civilization, boxers winning fights with shattered hands. All very
impressive. So how could
he
take advantage of this new-found peace
of mind?
There was a loud bang, and then a great yawning sound of metal
disagreeing with metal as Milo’s Monza clipped the side of a car
parked on the shoulder of the road and tore viciously against it.
Harvey pitched forward and hit his head sharply on the dashboard.
Luckily, it was covered with a very plush red sheepskin, so he
remained unscathed. Having spilled his drink, he luxuriated himself
with another one. The heavily-tinted side window and angle of
collision prevented Harvey from clearly seeing the car that they had
collided with, otherwise he might not have been so composed.
Though unhurt, Milo was angrier than he would have been if he
found someone in bed with his sister. His beautiful, cherry Monza
had been injured by some lowlife scum that couldn’t even properly
park his car on a deserted stretch of desert highway. Despite the
drugs, Milo was certain that the car he hit had been sticking
way
out
into the road. He swung the padded door open and charged over to
assault the shithead who was responsible.
No one
fucks with the Sex-
Mex Machine, man—no one who doesn’t want to be eating his next
enchilada through a needle. Tears were streaming down his cheeks.
Revenge was nigh.
Then, abruptly, he noticed the other car. It was black and white
and red all over. A police car. A police car with a pretty bloodied-up
police guy hanging over the remains of the driver’s-side door, too.
Instantly, Milo’s fury was muffled by the overwhelming fear of
getting sent to jail. He had never been to jail. He stood staring
dumbly at the wreckage, unsure exactly what to do. Move forward,
you could help the guy but go to the slammer. Move back, the guy
could die, and you’re on the run. Move to South America and you
could forget about the whole thing.
Still, there was no way Milo could leave the guy there to bleed to
death. That would be a totally un-Jesus thing to do. And Milo loved
Jesus, man. Jesus worked the door at a place up in the sky where the
cars were all lowered and all the chicks walked around in their
underwear; where the mountains were titties and the oceans malt
liquor. But Jesus sure wouldn’t let Milo into that place if he let the
poor pig die. There was no way around it. Jesus didn’t take fake IDs.
Walking hesitantly up to the police car, Milo called out, “Hey
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