He dropped the silver wrapper on the floor next to the table and gazed around in search of his car keys. They weren't on the key hook his aunt had given him last Christmas. They weren't on the counter either. He lumbered back to the foyer and plucked them from the hall table.
On the way out, Bojargis again paused in the kitchen, took two shots of Beefeater and walked out to his car. The screen door banged behind him. He didn't bother to lock the door -- there was little risk of theft in this part of town and little at risk in the house.
Bojargis grasped the door of his car and slowly eased himself into the driver's seat. It was a 1984 Dodge Rampage -- a vehicle at once far ahead of its time, but simultaneously outclassed by its American peers. He had considered converting it into a replica Shelby Daytona/Rampage hybrid, but hadn't gotten around to it yet. Babes love a Shelby, of course, so it was really just a matter of time.
The starter clicked and the thunderous roar of 96 ponies galloped furiously into the stratosphere. "Fuck yeah" Bojargis thought to himself, "still got it". He backed out of the driveway, slammed that sucker into D, and calmly pressed the accelerator to the floor.
