el jefe

he wouldn’t give it up.

“That 911’s a ’72…the external oil filler flap right behind the passenger side door gives it away. Did you know that? You can’t call yourself a Porschephile if you didn’t! It was the only year a production 911 would employ a feature Piëch developed for the 911R. So technically, you…”

I was trying to shake this motherfucker off me. like a tick, he latched on trying to bury his head into my skin while pounding my ear with condescension. I had enough of this guy’s bullshit; I barked...

 
 

el jefe

and then it came…

crude, dry, and beaten — perfect.

the crooked red sticker demanded “handle with care.” scars and tattoos collected from Hemiksem to Plainfield never revealed the contents hugged in naked cardboard — but to hell with any preconceptions when that perforated flap was ripped open.

 
 

el jefe

they skimmed it.

those sonsofbitches.

why even bother writing a goddamn book on the Grande Dame and not dedicate at least a chapter to the Weissach Edition? apparently she was only worth a few half-assed sentences peppered with an option code, the color, and that it came with some luggage.

what a disgrace.

 
 

e̶l̶ ̶j̶e̶f̶e̶

she drifted in without a sound.

I went limp giving no resistance as Death gently embraced and lifted my soul away from its shell. she’d cut me loose into the black that gave way to the brightest sun no one can bring back as a souvenir.

the most beautiful dream was waiting to take possession of my soul in exchange for a reality I’d spent a lifetime pursuing.

 
 

e̶l̶ ̶j̶e̶f̶e̶

my woman had gotten home before me. I was busted.

she’d surely catch the scent of the nasty girl I had spent the day with. I was too exhausted for the salvo of questions she’d start asking in haste. 

 
 

e̶l̶ ̶j̶e̶f̶e̶

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