He passed the age to thrash one night on the highway.  He wrinkled his nose as if he smelled skunk faintly, stinkweed maybe.  In a moment it was gone.  His mouth opened, tongue lolled toward the front of his puffy face.   

These scars are stories, he liked to say to first time but soon forgotten friends.  He had taken to making up the stories, getting more unbelievable with every telling.  

There was no one along for the ride tonight.  This wasn’t his car anymore.  It never was to begin.  It was something youth borrowed and was now returning overdue.

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