It was a brisk Friday night in October, and I was walking down Washington Avenue, reliving the events of earlier that night. I was bleeding out of my left side just below my rib cage, the right side of my face felt like it was on fire, everything I could see out of my left eye was fuzzy, I had a gash the size of the Grand Canyon on my left leg, both my hands were bruised and cut up, and my left forearm was bleeding. I was looking worse for wear, and felt like I just got hit by a bus. Thankfully, it was late at night and the streets were empty. This was a good thing for me because I didn't want anyone to see me, let alone talk to me. I eventually hobbled up to Second Street and took a right toward my loft. I was about two hundred yards from my place when a car came screeching around the corner. I turned to my left to see what was going on, and noticed this was not just any car. It was a bright yellow 1967 Fastback Mustang GT. I had seen this car before. With my newfound mortality I was unable to do much about it other than stare at it as it came roaring down the street, right at me. I told myself that it looked like I was going to miss that eleven o'clock call.