The Hot Rod Dash… Again…

The tach danced through the rev’s as Keith shifted from gear to gear. I stared intently… hoping that if I concentrated hard enough, all of my problems would dance away with that graceful red needle. We were headed to the airport and misery almost certainly awaited us. For reason I’ve never fully understood, Keith and the TSA have been at odds with each other for as long as I can remember. Each time they meet, something goes awry and usually it comes with catastrophic circumstance.

This time would be no different.

“Why are they picking on me?” Keith asked as the uniformed TSA officer took him aside for a “random” search. “They never mess with you and you’re a god-damned hoodlum!”

“Simmer down,” I replied. “Don’t you know we are in the middle of a war?”

“So what?” he snapped ignoring the TSA man as he became more and more alarmed to the suspiciousness of my brother. “I’m not a terrorist. I’m not carrying any bombs. I’m a stand-up AMERICAN by god!”

“That’s what they all say,” I said while winking towards the man in blue. “And let’s face it Keith – you are swarthy as all hell. What with that bald head and your… I mean, you just look guilty to me. I bet you are carrying some hashish too, aren’t ya?”

The metallic sound of the cuffs catching on their first tooth woke me from the day dream.

***

I was trying to write an intro for another feature on Hot Rod dashes and the above came somewhere from the depths of my melon. Don’t ask me my man… I just live here. In any case, enjoy this file dump of traditional hot rod dashes…

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