A kaleidoscope of flashing street lights.
Flashing past the black CTS-V Cadillac at a dizzying speed. In front of him a long, straight, empty street, strangely devoid of traffic. The old man sat in the right front passenger seat made of leather. The softest thing he had ever sat in. The car, black as a portrait of evil itself, purred on through the night with an almost insolent, sacrilegious ease. He turned his head to his left and looked at the image of the man sitting in the darkness of the car’s interior with him.
He called himself Smitty. The old man almost smiled. Lots of people called this strange white boy a name. Many of them not so complimentary. It depended if those who had names for him found themselves on the receiving end, or the hiring end, of his services. From what he hea
