Second-Hand Stories

Bedtime Stories/Fiction, Daily Prompts

An old friend told me this story a million years ago, so I honestly don’t know how much of what I remember actually happened. Imagine the following tale as an onion: the seed is real, but it’s just wrapped in layer over layer of fluff.


I dashed down the highway at 150km/h in my four-thousand-year-old Nissan, blowing wispy grey smoke into the blue-black sky. My dumbass best friend was lying unconscious next to me, drenched in vodka and vomit. Fuckin idiot couldn’t even take five shots. 

I turned on the radio and amped up the volume, hoping Drake would wake that fucker up. We were less than five miles away from his house, and I wasn’t about to carry his 200 pound ass up three flights of stairs.

“Yo, Chris,” I slapped him across the face. “Wake the fuck up, mate.” He groaned but showed no sign of having heard me. Are you fucking serious.

I swerved to the right lane and was about to take the exit when I heard the siren blaring somewhere far behind me. I glanced at the mirror and saw the outline of a police car gaining ground on me. MOTHERFUCKER.

I smashed my foot into the gas pedal so hard that I could swear I broke a fucking toe. After gasing it at 200 for about two minutes and wondering how the hell my old ass Nissan didn’t break, I pulled over by a dense forest on the side of the highway. Frantic, I grabbed a water bottle from the backseat and dumped it on Chris’ face. No response. FUCK ME. I slammed his head against the window.

“Chris, WAKE THE HELL UP.” I screamed into his ear. “The fuckin police are on my arse.”

I didn’t know if it was my head slamming or if he suddenly remembered his two previous arrests, but at the word “police” Chris finally came to his senses.

“Oh fuck, what?” He shouted and sat upright like a terrified rat.

“Get your fat arse out of my car.”

“What, why??”

I wanted to rip off his vomit stained shirt and shove it into his stupid mouth. “Because I’m not supposed to drive people, you bellend.” I shoved him against the door. “GET THE FUCK OUT.”

He threw the door open and bolted into the forest. I sank into my chair and squeezed my eyes shut. Goddammit.

A minute later the police pulled up behind me and some fat Maori dude walked up to my window. He asked for my permit and ID and a bunch of other stupid shit.

Fifteen minutes later he came back. “Okay, so that’s $1000 for driving 50km over limit and $4000 for driving a passenger on your permit.”

I looked at him like he was crazy. “There’s no passenger. What are you talking about?”

He blinked, realizing for the first time that Chris had jumped out of the car.

“What the hell?” He demanded. “Where did the other kid go?”

I shrugged. “I’m driving by myself. You okay, mate?”

The look he gave me was stormier than any thunder cloud I’d ever seen. I almost had to stop myself from flinching.

“Don’t fuck with me, kid.” He said in this low, dangerous voice that I imagine loan sharks used before they threatened to kill you. “You can go to jail for this.”

Again I shrugged. “Where’s the evidence, bro?” I challenged in what I hoped was a very flippant tone. “You can’t arrest people without evidence.”

The fat twat searched around my car for more than twenty minutes before he finally gave up and drove away.

I slammed my head against the steering wheel. Then I started laughing. Maniacal, uncontrollable, incessant laughter. I didn’t stop until Chris crawled back into my car, then I told him what had happened and it began all over again.

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