'Ard Boy and I are our way to Seattle from Portland.
'Ard Boy went to Army SF school, hence the name. Big bruiser of a bastard. Got his jump wings and a certification in teaching knife fighting.
It's New Years Eve, and he's freshly divorced, slightly loaded, and we're headed to NYEOLF, a gaming con.
We're trekking in my shitty little Chevy Cavalier.
Hit I-5 going N. out of Longview, and it's snowing. Hard.
Big fat fluffy flakes. There's 8 inches on the highway divider.
We're crawling along at 35. The ditch has got semi-trucks, SUV's, countless 4-wheel drive trucks, and an army of tow trucks getting rich hauling them loose.
We're gonna be late. Miss the first round, at least. 170 miles to go, three hours to be there.
What have I got? 2WD, 4/5's of a tank, and the soundtrack to Juice, Know The Ledge set to repeat.
Pedal sinks to the floor, steady as death.
WHIP up I-5. We rip past plows, cops, volume's up far enough to shake the snow off the rear window.
'Ard Boy's got a white-knuckle ogre fist clutch on the Oh Shit Handle. Keeps yelling something about "safe."
Hit a nice even slide at 65. There's enough snow on the median to shake the wheel constantly, but I'm The Fucking BOSS.
BRAND NEW MORN, NO TIME TO YAWN, THE SHOWER'S ON THE POWER'S ON.
Touch the brakes two-and-a-half-hours later.
Hey. 24 hour diner.
Look at 'Ard Boy.
"Hey, you hungry?"
"I could eat something. We've got...12 mins."
"Time enough to get something to go, eh?"
His hands pop as he lets the handle go.
Don't look back, acquire bacon.
Fuck yeah, bacon.