Published about a year ago
It’s a sweaty Wednesday night and Gene Schrader’s battered Ford Granada crawls down a thin dirt-road lit only by the headlights. His seat-belt dangles uselessly over his shoulder, having not even tried to pull it over his heavy frame. The radio shifts in and out of Frank Sinatra’s smooth tones to mind-numbing static as the car drags itself over terrain that becomes increasingly challenging. There are pools of viscous, stinking mud to swerve around, and Gene does, multi-tasking, picking a bad wedgie out of his ass-crack and slurping foam off the top of a piss-warm Pabst Blue Ribbon at the same time.