Alan realized that everything was suddenly too bizarre. Struck with a disturbed sense of awe, Alan noticed and reveled in the odd thrills he found. Little sleep and many other things found Alan predisposed to such feelings, but the largest factor was Alan's current situation.
Alan's band -Low Ride and The Manholes- had started to practice, cop, and shoot more. Together the Manholes and Alan embodied wreckless search for fun. No fun of any sort was unavailable when everyone was assembled. Tonight the Manholes had engaged in the normal drugs and rock 'n roll. Copping was next on the list and Alan was quick to show his scamming genius. Everyone grabbed dark blue clothes, fake badges, hats, night-sticks, and flashlights before they all hopped in the black van. Driving toward the abandon building the moon shone through clouds bringing the intermittent and indecisive rain. Screeches, lights, and crashing cars swirled around Alan. Quickly glancing around could almost read the strange notes. The car was nice, probably Italian and smashed into the coupe.
"Motherfucker. That dude just slammed that car right after he swerved out of my."
"Did you see him?"
"After he crashed."
With all the facts now Alan could see George Jefferson -who didn't own the car- getting out from the wreck. Vigilante justice and riches that were meaningless to the waste were scribbled out along with a Sincerely the Ownership. The wasted car was transfixing.
"The kids are gonna be gone after this wreck."
"Hopefully they left their booze or whatever."
"Damn, that car got to do the fun part."