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Fiction

ROLLING IN MY SIX-FO’—DAA DAA DAA—WITH ALL MY NIGGAS SAYING: SWING DOWN SWEET CHARIOT STOP AND LET ME RIIIIDE. HELL YEAH.

by: Rion Amilcar Scott

The car was a Chevrolet. Big and boat-like. Old. Older than both of its occupants. 1964. Sliding into the darkness out ahead.

        The driver reached across Doug’s lap and rifled through the glove compartment. He pulled back a plastic cylinder. The contents click-clack-clicked. Letting go of the steering wheel, the driver held it steady with the side of his forearm, unscrewed the container’s top and sprinkled some pills into his flat palm... more



 
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