best of king giz

You wake up one day, and are driving a yellow 1978 Chevy Nova, at a high rate of speed, down Highway One, Pacific Coast Highway.  You look at your speedometer, the orange indicator is pegged past the 120-mph mark. On the bench front seat, in the passenger area, is a wooden crate. It's made of pallet wood. In stenciled red spray paint and big capital letters, it says, "DYNAMITE."  Maybe you should slow down.  You look in the rearview mirror. What is in the back seat? You chance a head check to the back seat. Oh, no. It's another crate, this one, longer and thinner. Made from black plastic.  It has some white stenciled letters, but they are small, and there are too many to read. It has one of those yellow placards, the three curved yellow geometrical shapes, the outer curve forming a broken circle. A mangled mess of wrought iron fence pieces are strewn about. Attached to one of the pieces is a sign, and it says "Cemetery Gate." You just woke up and already this is a bad idea. Maybe you shoulda thought twice. About what? Well, for one, you're in a '78 Nova speeding on PCH with a nuke, a case of dynamite, and a cemetery gate. You decide you need to pull over. You are coming up on an intersection. You turn left and pull over at what looks like a park. A little nature and prayer would be good.  Something, anything. But you can't leave the car. 
   You're sitting in the car, looking through the windshield, watching some people playing basketball.  And then...tap, tap, tap. Someone is tapping on your driver side window, taking advantage of the fact you were watching the game. Very slowly, you turn your head, expecting either a police officer, a vagrant, the park chief of security, or a member of the "KickYourBurro" Cartel. Okay, it's a white, blond lady. Slim and sleek in a black professional sport suit, she keeps tapping. Her straight blond hair is pulled back in a loose ponytail. Not beautiful but better looking than you. She has a black briefcase. "Oh, No," you say. FBI. CIA. NSA. KGB. DHS. MI6. ICE. She shows you her business card through the window. Fragrance saleswomen. Oh. You roll down your window. She asks you if you'd like to try a new fragrance for women. You are a man, so you take a moment to ponder the strange question. She looks at the case of dynamite, the nuke, the mess in the backseat. Apparently not fazed, the woman shows you a bottle of perfume. Small, square and black, with a phallic symbolled pop-off lid, the French calligraphed label says, "Chanel #GO". You look up from the bottle. Then without warning, she sprays it in your face. You gag a little. The Beatles start playing on the radio, and there is no radio. You smell coffee. After a moment, you realize you're not in the Chevy Nova anymore.  
   You just set Kirk Douglas and his favorite sword ablaze, and you are trying to get off the burning Viking boat. You dive into the crashing waves. A rip current pulls you under water. You think your dead, but you pull yourself out of the waves, and a nude Jack Reacher is staring at you. Uh-oh. Don't look now, but a tornado is about to pick you up and take you for a ride. Up you go. You hear a small dog barking. John Wayne tells you to mount up and says, “Them there's Ned Peppers boys.” Robert Redford gives his Hawken, and points at a caribou. The tornado set you down in a field of poppies. Now you are standing on a platform, an old wooden structure. Smells like the dirt. A loathing Brutus just slipped a black hood over your head. Before you can say anything, protest your inhumane conditions, he drops a thick rope noose over your hooded head and gives it a tug. You hear muted gasps, from what must be a crowd of onlookers. Some women are moaning, but overall, the crowd is jovial. Someone is playing "Hallowed be Thy Name," by Iron Maiden, on a banjo. Then, a megaphone barks out some orders in Eskimo. Off to your left you hear a faint creak from a wooden lever being pulled. Guess you shoulda stayed home.

Way Outta Line

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