Elmore King didn't look back. He'd pulled up in front of the fountain because he thought it would look cool. He hadn't even considered whether or not it was a legal parking spot. Did decorative water fountains count as fire hydrants? Maybe he'd get a ticket, maybe he'd get towed. It wasn't his car anyway, and even if it was, he was answering a higher calling at the moment than that of automobile ownership.
Elmore King was going to murder his brother.
He had some things he'd always wanted to before he took that final, irrevocable act. The first of which had been to drive his neighbour's 1974 Plymouth Roadrunner. A real classic. Don't make cars like that anymore. Damn shame.
Of course, if they did, it wouldn't have been nearly as much fun taking this one for a ride. Elmore had coveted his neighbour's muscle car for years. It sat under a tarp most of the year, a damn shame to let a car like that, a car that wants to be driven, a car made for the road, sit still like that. May-long, Elmore'd watch Brad Kostyk give it a proper wash and wax in the driveway, then take it for a cruise--who knows where. Kostyk never had it out past 9. Never drove it after dark.
"Elmore, what can I do for you?" Kostyk seemed genuinely surprised when he answered the door. Less so when Elmore smashed his fist against his stomach and dragged him to the kitchen, where the Roadrunner's keys hung on a pegboard.
The rumble of the V8 made Elmore feel like he was riding a lion. Like some gladiator from Bible days, riding a lion into the arena to punish the wicked.
He could still hear the beautiful roar of his magnificent beast from Detroit as he pushed through the doors into the front lobby of City Hall.
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