As you may have guessed I didn't kill an RX 8. I was simply killing time when a friend called me up and asked if I wanted to go look at cars. I had a few hours so I naturally replied yes.
Fast forward 15 minutes and five miles from campus. My friend and I arrive at Rally Mazda/VW/Dodge. I walk in and start bullshitting the saleman in hopes of landing a test-drive in the SRT-4 Neon. (yes, it'* a ******* Neon) He tells me that they already took a deposit on the only one in stock. He then asks what my price range is. I inform him that it will be a cash transaction. He says, "How do you feel about an RX 8?"
Fast forward ten minutes and eight miles. The salesman shows me what it can do in town. My six foot plus friend is in agony in the back. The saleman pulls over in a competitors lot. He confides that "this is what makes my job worthwhile." We switch seats. My friend pleads to be let out for a few minutes. I politely explain that it wouldn't be feasible to grant him release.
Fast forward five minutes and seven miles. I thoroughly test the RX 8. It'* rotary screams however, it is rather torqueless across the powerband. The auto stick is smooth if a bit slow. The suspension is more than up to the task of going through tight on ramp hairpins at 75 mph without a hint of giving up. The tires remain perfectly silent all through this. The chassis is perfectly stable at 115 mph.
Fast forward to the present. I'm sitting at a stop light on the way back to the dealership. The air is crisp if a bit moist. My friend in the back hit his head on the ceiling during one of the high speed ventures and tells me his neck is hurt. I discount this as jealousy. A beat up old multi-chromatic Cabrio in the adjacent lane throws a poorly muffled rev. In a move reminiscent of Vin Diesel in "The Fast and the Furious" the salesman in the passenger seat leans over and distinctly says, "Smoke him." My friend makes a plea for mercy. It falls upon deaf ears. Damn fart pipe.
The celestial cycle begins anew. A child is born. The fate of the world is decided. The light... turns green. I simply mash the gas. Traction control kicks in. A swarm of killer bees flees the weedwhacker next to me, or at least it sounds like that. I instantly put a car length on him. Make that two. No three. It'* bad. By the next stoplight he pulls behind another car behind me. The salesman looks over with a grin. A cricket chirps. And in a move reminiscent of Christopher Reeves in reality, my friend says quietly, "I can't feel my legs."
Mods, if you guys don't want me posting my stories anymore feel free to delete and drop me a PM.