Tribute to Mark, the SUV Driver

A Movie
Opening scene,

Mark, muscles bulging, peks visible under the tattered twin-tower Tshirt, opens the door of his Lincoln Navigator BLACK Hummer H2, and enters the driver's side.

The Hummer humms , engine starting as the slim, sliver of pocket hot metal enters the exposed seemingly hungry, well lubed keyslot. Mark pulls the seatbelt around his heaving chest, biceps gleaming and inserts it decisively in the slot, pffft. Svvvfffft ... the sound of webbing being slashed at the 12 inch Bowie knife cuts through the troublesome webbing, the motor growls and smoothly, as if covered with a wine flavored lubricant, the BLACK vehicle pulls free of its too small garage.

The H2 seems to grow as it backs off, emerges onto the street and thrusts its way into traffic. In no time, MTR is on the freeway autobahn, silent but for the steady growl of 473 horses and air slipping by the rough cut surfaces ... feminine, svelte Ferrari, the H2 is a man's car.

For the next thirty minutes the movie screen focuses on Mark's wind burned face, behind the deep blue ovals of his almost feminine, too small sunglasses. With intense concentration, MTR thrusts the wheel first to the right, then the left, right, left, right left, and the H2 responds .. surging to one then the other side. The BLACK car and white driver seem to almost fly down the precise, smooth surface of the endless roadway.

Then, the film goes black and we segue to a tired Mark, still in the tattered t shirt but now supported by pillows, sweaty, sitting up in the rumpled, beer stained bed, eyes closed, breathing deep, lazy smoke rising from the Camel cigarette loosely held between his wet lips.

The End