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Hotwire, My Ghetto Hero
Putting it to the Whiteman and Taking it to the Streets!

A hero rides!

Yes, as I strolled home from the Incongruent Grocer with my bag of $.25 gourmet yogurt, down Caucasian Avenue, which the Mayor has thoughtfully closed to traffic during business hours to provide for my writing peace of mind, I saw Smitty's monster pick up truck parked on the center line?

I just wished she wouldn't let those Mexican guys jackhammer the sidewalk down by the church. Sometimes the echo rings down this way...

Do tell, I thought, and walked toward the hulking vehicle, which is usually parked across the street from my plantation house, with junk spilling out of the back, threatening my slave girl's paint job whenever she rolls up to give the Khan curbside service.

I walked slowly towards the distant grill, feeling like Clint Eastwodd walking toward the Tiger tank at the end of Kelly's Heroes.

Then the beast rumbled into action and began stalking slowly towards me, jerking a little, as if arthritic.

Taking the better part of valor for my course, I stepped up on the curb and stood, waiting for the autonomous vehicle to pass, for the pickup had no driver!

Then, as the truck came abreast of me and I stood on my toes to look in, I saw the mastermind behind this coup. He was perhaps 11-years-old, had dark ebony skin and black braids, wore a white wife beater and black cargo shorts and drove like so:

He held the two wires together in his little hands.

He pressed the gas with his right foot while curling his left foot under the armrest on the door.

When he let off the gas he would peek up over the dash and see if he needed to steer with his left elbow.

With no steering necessary, as the street had been cleared for my peace of mind, he would then reach down with his little sneaker and press the gas again.

Go, Hotwire, go!

Smitty is going to be pissed.

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