Evangeline walked to the exact center of the road, and all of these eyes were fixed on her ass, swaying rhythmically step by step, under a pair of jeans so tight as to be deemed illegal in at least two counties.
All eyes were fixed on her ass hypnotic, even though most of the boor present were there only to see the cars run, the heavenly ass Evangeline was a show that was worth it to follow, at least for a moment.
And she knew it.
reached the middle of the road, a long ribbon of asphalt bisected by a yellow line. Evangeline turned around, putting himself standing on his feet, straddling the its wards. Someone began whistling, like the cowboys. Evangeline
raised his right arm, smiling to the call, he had a bandana tight in his fist, the flag printed on it was the most beautiful in the world.
The Stars and Bars of the Confederate States, stirred moved by the wind between the fingers of Evangeline, the moment had subsided, the two machines rumbled five yards from her would be games. This was the signal.
The long-awaited sign, in what many expect to receive for life, a sign that God can show you the way forward, or the choices you have to do in that case came from a blonde goddess of twenty-two years, with holding the flag that accompanied the heroes of Gettysburg.
The choice that you said was very simple to make.
crushes his foot on the accelerator, she embraces the faith of the speed, burning ten miles of asphalt, get to the Pitts and Johnson's back, before he does the guy who shoots the lane next to yours.
In confirmation of the act of faith, the engines of two cars that Evangeline in front of him, roared when she raised her arm.
Both drivers fix their gaze on that flag, waiting for the signal, keeping the engine revved up, ready to leave the clutch to a furious start.
Greg Palmer was driving a black 1971 Plymouth Barracuda, brand new. Under the hood was a 426 V8 with hemispherical combustion chamber, fed by two carburettors quadricorpo Carter by 550, 425 discharged and 350 shaft horsepower to the rear wheels.
Down in the village, between the tables of Cletus Inn, the guys were saying that Greg was able to shoot the Barracuda from zero to sixty mph in less than four seconds, but almost always used to say quietly, because the laws they have to be whispered.
Bruce Ladd was driving a Dodge Charger R / T 1970, bottle green.
Mounting an engine 440 Six Pack, 8-cylinder V, powered by three double barrel Holley carburetors, three carburetors for two bodies, or a pack of six, as the cans of beer.
Months earlier, in May the hottest in memory of Texas, many had Bruce seen along a quarter mile in fourteen seconds.
Greg and Bruce had known for years and probably hated each other even before the coming into being. While it is true that each is the master of its own destiny, it is also true that no one can choose where in the world born. Greg Ladd and Bruce Palmer were both born in Lorraine, Texas.
Hole-in-ass Lorraine, Texas, was a place where one drugstore so small enough for everyone, and it was impossible for us two cocks without scratching, at least, allow them to inflate their breasts and peck every now and then. The old parchment
sputatabacco that under the arcades of the hole-in-ass main street, had understood early on that those two, as well as hate, would be finished soon in trouble.
And so, a gob of spit in another, fantasized about traveling to the mothers weeping in prison
Huntsville, a shotgun wedding, or the untimely death of one of two violent death, stay certain friend, who will end up like that.
In 1962, just turned sixteen, Greg and Bruce sat behind a steering wheel, and began to get busy, to keep expectations. Live fast, die young and leave a good corpse.
Every now decided to take a little 'punch, especially if they found themselves both in the parking lot of the Starlight, which happens often, since it was the only Starlight Drive In the fifty-mile radius to have a decent programming.
The only chance for the people Lorraine, was that they had both a character too lonely to put on a band. Otherwise, yes there would be serious trouble for everyone.
Greg, in the end, he graduated as a champion of street racing. Many
spoiled children came from Austin to challenge him, we return the machine and a sea of \u200b\u200bdollars. On Sunday morning, you could see the bus station, with a gray face, a groom's time to go home.
Bruce, preferring the thrill of charging in the back that particular category of passengers who, after a levy to the bank, needs a fast switch to a safe place.
And if sampling is done at the bank with a shotgun Remington 870 Wingmaster 12-gauge to have a driver in the leg becomes a priority.
For years, Sheriff Coburn, a huge man of fifty, as a docile coyote tangled in barbed wire, had decided to torment the citizens of the two bullies.
The budget of the private war between the Sheriff Coburn and the two axes of the wheel of Lorraine, was strongly in favor of the last two. In addition to having eaten
shovel dust, swallowed gallons of bile, crumbled Bruce Ladd chasing a Ford Galaxie, Chevrolet Impala and a cast in a head to head with Greg Palmer, we had also put the two front teeth bumping into the wheel of his Plymouth Fury.
was too much even for a mastiff like Coburn. Then he decided that those two would have thought God directly, perhaps in the form of a nail that was a tire exploding, or making them go into a curve with the wrong trajectory. Or, and had a thought on which brooded a long time, God could take the form of an articulated Mack 18-wheel, you put it across the track before he realized one of the two to be sitting on a rocket of steel and that it was impossible to stop in the space between them.
Well, sooner or later those two bastards would die.
Coburn had only to wait, go to the dentist, drive slowly and give a lot of kick ass Hippie of the passage.
declared war on those fucking Volkswagen vans, and lived happily.
That day, July 31, 1971, the two axes of Lorraine, who knows why, decided to compete directly. A classic race circuit, from Pitts Hill to Johnson's return.
The news of a car ride that saw them compete against each other, had traveled along Highway 281 from Stephenville to Hamilton, until down to Lampasas, touching the shores of Lake Buchanan.
In fact, by the roadside, waiting for the tires of the Barracuda and Charger scream in the heat of departure, there was a lot of people.
From the lake had risen a couple of the Swamp Rat, on board of an old pick-up.
Now he stood there, hands in the pockets of their dungarees, to see what the fuck was going on, and it was worth it to come up to it, or whether it was better to stay in the barracks at Camp fuck his cousin.
For the most part, the audience was made up of motoring enthusiasts, and it was clear from what were the cars that were treated at the roadside. It was a wonder of the open garage. Besides the shitty Pick Up the Rat, was a Dallas Cowboys, with her buttocks resting on the hood of his Corvette Stingray 327, midnight blue.
looked toward the two who were about to leave, and occasionally throwing glances at the kind of challenge before him, across the street. A thin, nervous little chap
, who had to draw on its Dodge Super Bee 440, a hell of a fire that started from the hood and sides fired.
Two years earlier, Ford had called a philosopher and a team of mechanics, and asked if we could give the concept of Man in the steel. They said yes, and I was out the thesis of philosophy called Mustang Shelby GT 500. On that road they had come six, and sweating testosterone from exhaust pipes.
All had arrived there to find out who was the best. To see with their eyes as the Charger had Bruce addressed the bend of the sixth mile, a path difficult to maintain over the 110 miles per hour, and it was important to take in, not to be burned on the next straight.
Shortly before Johnson's Pitts was a bump, and that bastard made the difference. Many of us had put the suspension, others were thrown out of the way, his back had boosted their cars, like a rattlesnake which is a runaway horse. That hill would also bite Barracuda Greg?
The road soon, he would answer all questions within its competence. Unfortunately, some answers even the track was able to give her.
Because those two had decided to compete?
What was at stake?
Nobody knew but Bruce and Greg, and none had had the courage to go and ask.
ran this matter, and it was enough to gather all the Hill to attend that game meant to be told quietly, because that is how you tell the legends.
Evangeline walked to the exact center of the road and turned around, putting himself standing in the foot, on horseback of its wards.
raised his right arm, had a bandana tight in his fist, the flag printed on it was the most beautiful in the world. The shooting down
.
And Bruce and Greg went against their fate.
Writer atomic forces in the Bonelli (Napoleon, Zagor, Dampyr) and BD (Milano Criminale). Expert secret things, runs with a black car, screened from the rays 'Z' sent to his brain from Zeta Reticuli.
find her blog HERE.
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