Ditzy had a new pony, actually a used pony, more exactly 210 ponies in the form of a 4-liter, single-overhead-cam, V-6, fire engine red, five on the floor, Mustang with aluminum wheels and side impact airbags. She would have preferred convertible ponies, so the wind would blow her ponytail, but beggars and little girls can’t be choosers.
She felt like a Comanche Pocahontas on her way to steal horses from the Sioux, horses like the 700 horses in her grandfather’s supercharged Mustang GT with 4.6 liter, single-overhead cam, three-values-per-cylinder, advanced-variable-cam-timing, V-8 with 700 wild mustangs and five on the floor.
“Look out Toto, we’re not in Kansas anymore.”
Ditzy drove west on the Rosa Parks Freeway. She followed Chiadi’s instructions, and she took the Robertson Boulevard exit. The Mustang wound its way along the street. At a green light, a car came from the north. Toto, he’s not stopping. Toto, he’s going to hit us. He hit us. Oh, we’re spinning. Oh, the insurance forms. Oh, the accident report. Toto, we’re going to . . . Hail Mary, full of grace, Our Lord is with thee, Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of . . . . Toto, we stopped spinning. Are we dead? Holy shit, my mother will kill me.
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