You can’t hold back your vexation with this man’s audacity any longer and threaten to yank out those support tubes if reparations aren’t promised.
“Hai-aye wudn’t gonna hurtchew,” the old man cries out as he instantly becomes whimperish, “I…I’m jest a por, ole blaihnd man! I need them tubes to function! I got nootrents that come outta there and the next fill-up spot iz hunnerds a maihls away!”
You take a moment to think and decide that you’ve simply had enough and should be taking action to defend yourself – you yank out the largest of the tubes. PLOPP! This puts the man in a coma-like state and makes him look rather like old Boris Karloff as Imhotep, asleep for aeons.
Then the truck begins to creak into motion. You try to evacuate, but the door is rigorously held in place. The truck is building up speed, 40…55…70…the wheel is actually fighting against you as you try to steer it straight…80…90…you’ve reached the brake with your foot but it’s only moving faster…95…The truck is making more horrible and unidentifiable noises than the heart of the Congo once it maxes out around 100 mph.
You hoped it wouldn’t come to this but now you’re struggling to reattach the tube into its oval slot somewhere on the nape of his neck. You push the end of the tube against something mushy and the driver reawakens, shooting up in his seat like a well-done Pop-tart. The bad news is that the brakes are instantaneously applied at his revival…and you’re not buckled in.
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