maybe I should. Maybe I should.

The contestants lined up, engines purring and as the clock reached to half-past midnight, those purrs turned to roars. Those roars turned to shrieks as half-past midnight stretched on into a temporal suspension. Those shrieks turned to signs of relief as two past half-past midnight came and went.

There was no flag, no girl in white twirling a banner. There would be no race through the flood gates. There would be no honor at stake, no pride won or lost, nothing but the comfort in turning off the engines, putting down the remote controls, putting the suped-up matchbox cars back into the contestants dark trench coats, and back into the dark we all went.

I caught up with Gary on 4th and Baldingder. We ducked into the deli for a couple beers in brown paper. I hadn't noticed too good in the light what he was rolling with at the canceled race. I asked him about it. He pulled out a retro-fitted two-fist knuckle sandwich that I eagerly dodged. I shook my finger at him. I wouldn't get instigated into his fight. He knew this too well, and in hindsight I wondered at him trying to hit me with two fists at the same time, an awkward and slow attack. Almost no attack at all.

How's that? Lucien. Lucien first hipped me to an idea that you could weave letters together to form words. They could be words you learned in school, but they could be from the street. Lucien was the devil. He's since retired and in the tedium of retirement, took me on as a shipmate as he set sail through the twilight of his life.

Now, when I say "weave letters together" and "the devil" I don't mean to say there is sorcery going on. Just language. But language can have power, if we give it credence. By credence, I don't mean the band, but maybe I should. Maybe I should.

Timer's up.