Puta madre! — “Motherfucker!” (intense frustration)
NO! — Self-explanatory panic cherry on top
Put together? “Shit! Fuck! Goddammit—fuck—motherfucker—NO!”
In layman’s terms?: I realize what you’re about to do and I hate everything about it.
And unfortunately for him, we’re already midair.
And weightless.
My ass lifts offthe seat.
Alejandro’s ass lifts off the seat.
Skippy’s entire corpse drifts upward from the back like some grotesque astronaut on a zero-gravity joy ride, limbs floating as gracefully as rigor mortis allows.
Alejandro releases one long, beautifully tortured, “Shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit.”
I keep both hands firm on the wheel, eyes locked on the trajectory ahead?—
or close enough to ahead.
Because the rooftop we thought we were landing on is actually a glass dome.
We hit it with a thundercrack of shattering crystal.
Light explodes around us—white, blinding, raining shards.
Then the car slams downward, crashing through the opening and hitting a marble floor with bone-jarring violence.
The world resolves into white stone walls. Pedestals. Paintings. Sculptures.
A museum.
Of course it’s a museum.
The impact sends Skippy tumbling into the footwell behind us, but I don’t give him a second glance. I jam the accelerator again. The wheels scream and we drift into the spiral walkway that winds down the interior like a stone helix.
Down we go.
Sideways.
Screeching.
Sculptures blurring past.
Tourists screaming and diving for cover.
Miraculously—insanely—I don’t hit a single thing.
At the bottom, the spiral spits us out toward a pair of giant double doors thrown open to a portico decked out for a gala. Yellow lights twinkle overhead. Guests in tuxedos and gowns stroll with champagne flutes.
