C'est Marie.

"Have you ever tiptoed around Napalm?"



"Hi there. Can you give me a ride home?"

She looks like the type of girl he would fuck. It's pouring outside his car, and the engine's too loud for him to be able to listen anything but fear. He reads her words throught red lips, while rolling up the window.

- Hi there! Can you give me a ride home? It's raining hell out here. - she yells.

He doesn't spit a word, and just lets her in. Black jet hair , hanging down her shoulders, is as wet as her thighs. She looks like the type of girl he would fuck. Her smile reminds him of highschool girls screwing 30 year old men.

- Sure.

He doesn't even ask her her name. She doesn't even tell him either. The engine sound becomes unbearably louder as he starts driving, the road divided in half by a yellow old stripe. She looks like the type of girl he would fuck.

He speeds up, locking the doors with a mute "click". She calmly panics, looking outside the foggy glass, watching the woods go by, only distinctible from the twigg shadows due to the difuse headlights. She asks him wheezly to stop. He's firmly headed to somewhere she's clueless about, and that's definitly frightening to her little body.

She smells like she's been touched inappropriately by 30 year old men. She looks like the type of girl he would fuck.

- Stop.

Jerking a smile, it's his turn to play with another life. He speeds up in a frenzy, deadly changing lanes, giggling in between the crossovers. "What a fucked up world", she thinks, grabbing her seat like the last piece of cake in the world. A mercury taste reaches from her stomach to her mouth, transforming into a silent, miserable cry.

He's bitter. Acid. Corrosive. Like lemonade. Like dark, humid chocolate. Like her father's memories and her mother's lovers. Like pollution, world peace solutions, dead baby cats and late circumcisions.

She looks like the type of girl he would fuck.

The intermittent road lights blip faster, just like her heavy breathing. Lungs filled up with the recoiled smell of used gasoline and tired tyres. Now gazing at the reflective mirror, eyes squinted in an almost-pleasure form, velocity starts to raise upon her legs to her torso. Shivers. She forcingly closes her eyes. Can't see nothing, just the faded yellow line enjoying the ride throught the black scenario in her head. There's no fear, no anxiety, no nothing. Just black and yellow, merging to have kids in another dimension.

Suddenly the car stops. A million houses surrounding them. The number 499 is vaguely sprayed in purple above the old, heavy, ugly wood door. Her number, her door, her house, her uglyness. Home. She's not at Home, but instead at some neat shack she uses to sleep in. Slowly turning, still shivering, she smiles at him.

Now he's confused.

Kid angered.

Why isn't she surprised? Remotly sad? Melancholic?

Why isn't she his?

She looks like the type of girl he would fuck, but now she smacks him so hard in his face that he's capable to hear his own cheekbones crack, the pain is unbearable. She speeds up the punching into yellow lines, while whispering gently in his ear:

- You look like the kind of guy I would fuck. Not this time. No, this time I'll choose you to fuck myself.

Eventually, he'd stop smiling.