I’ve always loved the smell of burning asphalt, but about a month or two ago, I started realizing it didn’t give me the same rush it once did:
As I tear through the streets, drifting at corners and spinning the wheel like I ‘m steering a pirate ship, I can’t help but notice how cumbersome it feels tonight. Because sure, I do this for the rush, but drag racing was about impressing Jireh. And Jireh…I don’t even want to think about where she is or what she’s doing right now.
I do think about it though, and that’s why as I’m wondering what horrible insult she’s probably taken to referring to me as, Bryce Tilinson zooms past me in his stupid red 1970 Chevelle with his equally stupid grin.
“Fuck” I swear, as I step harder on the gas. My black Dodge Challenger growls excitedly and zooms forward in tandem. The speed and blood pumping into my ears as I turn up the volume knob help me to not forget about Jireh, but rather to use my emotions as fuel. Yes, I’m aware of how dangerous that is.
One common mistake a lot of drag, and I imagine “actual” racers make, is getting too attached to their vehicles. Sure, it’s literally your money maker, and if you fuck up you might die, or worse, have to get a new one, but at the end of the day, if you’re not willing to take that risk, then you’ll almost always lose to someone who is.
That’s why as Bryce nears a corner with me on his tail, he slows down. Me? I press the pedal even harder, clench my ass-cheeks, and spin the steering wheel like it’s the last thing I’ll ever do.
The tires screech so loud it almost sounds like the car is screaming in fright, but it gets the job done, only now I’ve turned almost a 180 degrees such that my car’s ass is facing the direction in which I’m supposed to drive in.
Shrugging and smiling slightly, my gaze shifts to my wing mirror mirror as I switch to reverse and stomp on the gas once more. My car shoots backward, while Bryce just stares at me, mouth agape, probably wondering how long I’ve got before I inevitably kill myself.
I mean it’s a fair question, honestly.
Cage The Elephant’s “Ain’t No Rest For The Wicked” plays, and I somehow increase the pressure of my foot on the pedal. I’m not sure who I’m angry at exactly, it can’t be Jireh, because that would make no sense. The guy with the left elf ear, the one who-…nah. The anger I feel for him is different from what surges in my chest right now.
Unfortunately, as I manage to complete the entire lap in reverse, switching through lanes and dodging civilian cars, as I get to the end of the final lap and hear all the wise individuals who bet on me cheer me on as my car damn near crashes through the starting line, all in reverse, it hits me. Not like a truck, because that would indicate that I had no idea, rather it’s like the punch of a tired child, battling against bedtime.
I’m angry at myself. For being such a fucking coward.
Spinning the wheel again, my car turns back around with a jerk. I press the break to stop gyrating, before moving my foot to the pedal.
I cruise through a handful of miles with relatively no conflict, but then the universe remembers that I’m Teni Obafemi, and it has a quota to fill. So about two-thirds of the way into my final lap, a particularly stubborn Prius refuses to switch lanes no matter how hard I slam against the horn, and since we’re currently on a narrow, two-way road, it would be stupid of me to switch to the opposite lane, what with the the massive tanker zooming down it without a care in the world.
I switch lanes.
Knowing I don’t have much time before I’m squashed into a Teni-pancake, I press harder on the pedal to overtake the Prius.
But the prius speeds up as well.
I turn my gaze to the car and see a bearded, severely tanned, grey-haired man flipping me the bird.
I look back to the incoming tanker, it’s about 50 meters away from me. So I speed up, only for the stupid Prius to do the same.
The tanker is now about 40 meters away.
My passenger side window slides down, and the Prius’s driver window follows suit.
“Slow the fuck down!” I holler, “You’re gonna get me killed!”
“No!” He yells, flipping me the bird again, as if once wasn’t enough, “You slow down and get behind me where you were originally! We have laws for a goddamn reason!”
The tanker is 25 meters away now.
“What are you, a cop?!”
“Retired!”
“Thank you for your service.” I sneer, “NOW SLOW DOWN!”
“FUCK YOU!”
The tanker seems to be mentally challenged, because it’s now about 15 meters away with no sign of slowing down.
Blessing the air with a string of Yoruba obscenities, I clench my ass cheeks once more and slam my foot unto the pedal with all the force in my body. My Challenger launches itself forward and the godforsaken Prius speeds up, but is ultimately unable to keep up.
By now the tanker is about 10 meters away from me, roughly twice the length of my car. The ass of my Challenger hasn’t quite surpassed the position where the Prius’s tip is, but if I don’t switch lanes now, I’ll most likely die, which is fucking expensive.
So I somehow clench my ass cheeks even tighter and turn the steering wheel slightly to the right. The stupid tanker completely rips my right wing mirror off where it’s held, which slams into my window, cracking it, before flying off into the abyss somewhere. Both the tanker and the Prius scrape both sides of my car but I’m somehow able to worm my way through the two of them and zoom off into the distance, grateful that I would live to risk my life again.
By some miracle, I manage finish the rest of the lap peacefully and return to the finish line in one piece, most of cheers are normal, but a few seem confused as to why my car left in one condition and came back in another.
Slowing down, I park my car at one of the few empty spaces in the abandoned lot where the track both starts and ends.
“Uh…what the hell happened, honey?” Asks Seth, the pudgy, slightly overenthusiastic young man who runs the circuit. “You’re car looks like it’s been fucked.”
“You know, I’ve never really told you how much I appreciate how rapey your jokes are, Seth.” I reply.
This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.
He chuckles as he leans down to inspect the gnashes on my car, “Well,” he says, getting up, “This’ll run you about 3 grand, give or take.”
I respond immediately. “Cap.”
Seth shakes his head and pulls a cigarette out of the back pocket of his undersized navy blue jumpsuit. “I wish it was, Obafemi. But the cut’s deep. It goes past the paint and into the actual metal. Look.”
I do look, and the son of a bitch is right.
“Well how the hell am I supposed to get that much money?” I exclaim into the air, my head hung backwards.
He takes a step closer, “Well…”
“No.”
He sighs and steps backwards, “Fair enough. Hey, whatever happened that white chick you always used bring with you? She had some Jesus name?”
My gaze drops, and my jaw twitches ever so slightly. Seth seems to realize he’s struck a nerve, and opens his mouth, presumably to apologize, but I don’t let him. There are few things I hate more than an emotional outburst. Especially from myself.
I enter my car and slam the door, perhaps a little too loudly. I feel like a cowardly kid again, shutting out my problems instead of confronting them. Jireh often brings out the worst in me, almost as much as she brings out the best.
With minus one wing mirror mirror and the horrifying thought of a $3,000 paint job on my shoulders, I pull out of the lot and make my way home. For the first time in a long while, I turn off Cage The Elephant and drive in silence.
And then, a mile or so in my drive, I smell her. It’s faint, and it’s more like a draft carrying the scent of something she likes dances towards my nose, but regardless, it’s effect is the same. I decide then and there that this’ll be the last time I pass by the Atlantic Buffet. With a clenched jaw, I roll up my windows and threaten to do unspeakable things to the tear droplet behind my eye if it dares to come out of it’s gland.
It disobeys me.
My mood is soured even more when I get home and realize in my bout of stupid human emotion, I forgot to collect my cash. Walking up the endless staircases that seem to have babies with each other and multiply like rabbits, I call Seth, and grumpily tell him to leave it at his place for me to collect tomorrow morning before he leaves for work. In response, he proceeds to badger me about why it’s scenarios like this that don’t make it weird when he offers me a key to his apartment.
Yeah, okay Seth.
“Hey, the Jesus girl.” He says tentatively over the phone, ignoring my groans as I ascend the final flight of stairs, “Is she the reason you won’t go to school?”
“…I have enough credits to graduate, Seth.” Is all I say as I unlock the door of my dingy apartment and trudge inside.
He sighs, “That’s not what I asked, Teni. I know it might not feel like it, but you’re still young, maybe you should-”
“Look man, I’m fi-aargh!” I yelp when I enter my tiny living room to see a disgustingly beautiful woman with golden hair, like-colored eyes, and a pearly white smile, sitting cross-legged on my favorite (and only) recliner, a half-empty bottle of Maltina in her dainty, golden-manicured hands.
Seth’s volume increases, presumably because he did that millennial thing where they place the bottom of the phone to their mouths because they think you can’t hear them well.“Teni? Are you okay? Did you see a rat again? You gotta get outta that apartment, man. Go back to your pare-”
“Seth, I’ll call you back.” I end the call and place my phone in my pocket slowly, my gaze locked on the woman’s. “Um…can I help you?”
“Well, I must say, my child, this Maltina thing is truly a momentous achievement for mankind! It says it’s made in Nigeria, but I’m pretty sure I sent myself to Marrieta. I take it there is some sort of service where you can order international products?” She asks, taking this Maltina thing very seriously.
“Well, uh, the lady on sixth owns an African store so…”
“Ah, globalization!” She eureka-d, “How could I be so ill-informed? I apologize, my child. You see my mortal enclosure cannot possibly handle the weight of my infinite knowledge and mental prowess, which is why I appear to have an inconsistent level of intellect and cognition.”
“Right. And you are…?” I ask, trying to figure out how the hell she got into my apartment and if she was dangerous.
“Bah! Silly me. It appears in my excitement I forgot my manners. You’ll have to forgive me, Teni. I”-
“-how do you know my name?-”
“-forgot to tell you that I…am God.” An unwelcome breeze shows up and blows against her face, but she’s sitting down so instead of giving her that windswept look, all it does is get her a mouthful of hair. I snicker.
“Hold up.” I say, as what she says dawns on me. “Did you just say you were God?”
“In the flesh,” She smiles at her own joke, “Literally. Ha!”
I give her a once over. She’s wearing a blazer, dress pants, a shirt, a tie, and heels. With the exception of her golden ring and earrings, all of which are white.
It takes me all of five seconds to realize this woman is on drugs.
“Okay…um, God? I’m honored, really, I am. However, it’s pretty late, and for someone who claims to be an all knowing paragon of truth and honesty, showing up to someone’s house unannounced is a red flag. Especially when it seems like you broke in.”
The woman’s eyes widened in realization, “Ooooohh…you don’t believe me?”
“No. Now get out, I’m tired, horny, incredibly lonely, and you’re actually very attractive and look sickeningly happy, so you’re definitely not helping.”
“Oh, you flatter me, my child!” God (not “God”, she!) said, blushing and swatting at me like I was her high-school gossip buddy.
I sigh, “Whatever, can you leave now?”
God smiles and blows me a kiss. Out of her pursed lips, however, erupts an imposing, naked, golden man about seven feet tall, head first. It almost looks like some weird version of childbirth. Landing in a crouch about a meter or two away from me, his long, beautiful locks and full beard seem to be made of glistening sand, his skin akin to a baby’s ass in it’s clarity, and if you stare close enough, the beast of a man’s body becomes a little translucent.
I’m so mesmerized by her glorious display, I’m convinced I’m the one on drugs.
The brute turns to the woman and bows deeply before turning to me and doing the same.
“Is that…” I taper off.
“Samson? Yeah, it’s his spirit.”
“Wow,” Is all I can say, as I inwardly sulk from the fact that I almost said “not-bald Dwayne Johnson”.
Then Samson turns towards me and starts sprinting.
With a scream, I fall to the ground, close my eyes and brace for impact, but all I feel is a pool of pleasurable warmth welling in the pit of my stomach. When I reopen my eyes, Samson is gone, and it’s just me and God with her stupid smile, clearly oblivious to the heart attack she just gave me.
“WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT?!” I exclaim, my legs quaking as I stand up.
“That, my child, was divinity. You’re a human, so you’ll never be able to use it to that level, but, a crash course in discipleship and a good ol’ blessing from the father, or I guess mother of all creation, and bam! You’ll be wielding the holy spirit’s flames like it’s second nature.”
“Literally nothing about what you’ve said makes any kind of sense whatsoever.” I say.
“Don’t worry, my beloved child, I shall guide you through these bedeviling times! …Teehee, I said ‘devil’.” She then gets distracted by an ant crawling up the arm of my recliner.
The woman says something else, but I don’t catch it. My mind is racing at a mile a minute at all the implications that this could have, as well hoping to God almighty (or I guess this woman) that I must have just gotten high off the fumes of whatever Seth was smoking, unlikely as it may seem-
“Just to be clear,” She said, popping the bubble that are my thoughts, “You’re Teni Obafemi, right?”
I blink. “…Excuse me?”
“It’s just that after I compressed my infinite consciousness into this human shell, I asked the Holy Spirit for an address list of Teni-s, instead of a list of Teni Obafemi-s…or just the address of the Teni Obafemi.” She plonked her forehead, laughing heartily “Silly me, am I right? Honestly though, I’ve learned a lot about humanity from entering the wrong houses at night, haha!”
Oh. So God’s an idiot.
“Yes, I’m Teni Obafemi.” I do my best to stand up straight. “Are you really…G-God?”
“There we go,” She says, “Yes. I am Yahweh, the source of all existence throughout and beyond the multiverse. The ultimate miracle.”
“That’s…crazy.” I confess.
“Also,” She adds, “As long as my blood doesn’t touch their skin directly, it gives people with anti-divinity unimaginable power, that and I’m sure they want to get revenge on me due to how I was a little mean to them back in the day.”
“Okay…what does that mean?”
She reaches behind her and pulls out a stunningly beautiful broadsword. Golden, about 2 feet tall, and adorned with all sorts of gallant floral patterns. She presses the tip to her index finger and smiles slightly when a trickle of blood runs down her hand.
The moon chose that moment to send a beam through my window and literally paint the king of kings in a new light. God’s flawless bone structure perfectly casts a shade over the left side of her face, and her hair finally decides to correctly sway in the breeze. Her smile widens, and her eyes radiate, the glint in them an indication of unimaginably high levels of intellect hidden beneath her fog of ditziness.
“I’ll be honest,” she whispers, “We’re in mortal danger.”