Lurking9e9
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- Aug 7, 2021
Nicholas Robert Rekieta / Rekieta "Law" / Actually Criminal / @NickRekieta - Polysubstance enthusiast, "Lawtuber" turned Dabbleverse streamer, swinger, "whitebread ass nigga", snuffs animals for fun, visits 🇯🇲 BBC resorts. Legally a cuckold who lost his license to practice law. Wife's bod worth $50. The normies even know.
- Thread starter Himedall All-seeing Waifu
- Start date
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CoomerTine
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- May 21, 2024
Nick congratulating Kurt on 150K subscribers like he didn’t call him a pedophile
MrGodSlave
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- Mar 16, 2022
Since Keanu and Gabe are now fighting over Ethan Ralph, I decided to check in on Keanu's stream for any updates, instead I was greeted with this:
unironicjudiaism
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- May 28, 2025
Now the party is over yeah I agree. But thats a year later and as time passed from the first interview he did have relevant nuggets to share post 1st casino drop they just decided to tea bag him.
The smart play (a lot to expect from 2 retards who reside in America's hat) would have been to make him a useful idiot get DMs texts whatever else no one ever gained his trust to get all the way into the real grime he had
And not just with balldo. Who's to say there weren't gems between Aaron and the ape that would have drove shit head up a wall. We will never know because they nuked the opportunity. All they had to do was a phil level move on aaron
- Joined
- Sep 10, 2020
Machine spirits are imbued into the sportscar by the owner and Lord Balldo-man is a faggot. The car's gay.
- Joined
- Dec 25, 2017
You would need his vin number to track if the car has been sold, and I highly doubt he leaked that. Though it’s technically possible knowing his stupidity
- Joined
- Aug 3, 2021
This is why God doesn't talk to us anymore.
- Joined
- May 28, 2024
Nick will deny that because he never said the words "kurt is a pedophile"
She's a natural at blowing cylindrical objects
TrainWreckWatcher
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- Mar 9, 2023
He should have never promised to not flood again.
- Joined
- Dec 28, 2014
Like He can't just launch divine nukes all over the place.
- Joined
- Dec 25, 2017
Edit wrong quote:
For starters, a mustang is not a sports car, it’s a pony car(literally a category named after the mustang).
I will assume you know nothing about cars so let me fill you in.
A pony car is an economical compact coupe with rear wheel drive four seaters. These are mustangs, Camaros, and challengers.
They look strong and some variants can have a lot of power, but they’re not sporty vehicles and they’re usually meant for lower and middle class people to feel rich while buying a relatively cheap for performance car. This is why black and Mexican people these cars.
A GT500 is the expensive variant, but it’s still just a economical pony car by comparison,
The GT500 is closer to a muscle car, which is a heavier engine, often a V8, designed to accelerate quickly and perform well in straight lines. They handle poorly and any time you need to turn you have to slow down much more than a pony or a sports car. The dodge charger is the best example of a muscle car. These are mainly owned by douchebags who feel like the raw power says something about their strength or skill, but they usually end up being slower than every other car on anything but a straight road.
A sports car is a car specifically designed for performance and agility. Lower weight, tuned center of gravity, better handling, etc. a sports car is meant be fast but also still be able to turn and shift on a dime. Think Corvette, Miata, Porsche etc. these are owned by rich people who want to flex and enthusiasts who want to engage in driving as an actual sport(hence the name).
Pony cars are faggot cars primarily because they’re cheap, don’t really go fast, don’t turn particularly well, and in class words “even a bitch could drive one.”
Muscle cars take skill due to the sheer strength of the engine and sports cars take skill due to the g forces you can experience in them. But a pony? They’re not that different than a basic economy car once you start driving.
His car was listed at $99,999. Far cheaper than the higher end Porsches and Corvettes, but For roughly the same price he could have gotten a base model GT-R Skyline which would have been better in literally every category
0–60 mph:
GT-R: 2.9 seconds
GT500: 4.1 seconds
Quarter mile:
GT-R: 11.1 seconds @ 124.1 mph
GT500: 12.4 seconds @ 117.4 mph
Top speed:
GT-R: 196 mph
GT500: 163 mph
But remember, Nick settled for the mustang because he wanted his car NOW NOW NOW NOW
He didn’t pick an actually good car
For starters, a mustang is not a sports car, it’s a pony car(literally a category named after the mustang).
I will assume you know nothing about cars so let me fill you in.
A pony car is an economical compact coupe with rear wheel drive four seaters. These are mustangs, Camaros, and challengers.
They look strong and some variants can have a lot of power, but they’re not sporty vehicles and they’re usually meant for lower and middle class people to feel rich while buying a relatively cheap for performance car. This is why black and Mexican people these cars.
A GT500 is the expensive variant, but it’s still just a economical pony car by comparison,
The GT500 is closer to a muscle car, which is a heavier engine, often a V8, designed to accelerate quickly and perform well in straight lines. They handle poorly and any time you need to turn you have to slow down much more than a pony or a sports car. The dodge charger is the best example of a muscle car. These are mainly owned by douchebags who feel like the raw power says something about their strength or skill, but they usually end up being slower than every other car on anything but a straight road.
A sports car is a car specifically designed for performance and agility. Lower weight, tuned center of gravity, better handling, etc. a sports car is meant be fast but also still be able to turn and shift on a dime. Think Corvette, Miata, Porsche etc. these are owned by rich people who want to flex and enthusiasts who want to engage in driving as an actual sport(hence the name).
Pony cars are faggot cars primarily because they’re cheap, don’t really go fast, don’t turn particularly well, and in class words “even a bitch could drive one.”
Muscle cars take skill due to the sheer strength of the engine and sports cars take skill due to the g forces you can experience in them. But a pony? They’re not that different than a basic economy car once you start driving.
His car was listed at $99,999. Far cheaper than the higher end Porsches and Corvettes, but For roughly the same price he could have gotten a base model GT-R Skyline which would have been better in literally every category
0–60 mph:
GT-R: 2.9 seconds
GT500: 4.1 seconds
Quarter mile:
GT-R: 11.1 seconds @ 124.1 mph
GT500: 12.4 seconds @ 117.4 mph
Top speed:
GT-R: 196 mph
GT500: 163 mph
But remember, Nick settled for the mustang because he wanted his car NOW NOW NOW NOW
He didn’t pick an actually good car
Last edited:
- Joined
- Mar 18, 2025
The issue is that he's so bad at lying that he'll slip up on his narrative and reveal something by accident.
I should of stated "If he's not lying at all, at minimum she did..."
Sorry to respond to an old message.
Is this crackhead seriously suggesting he’s going to sue the county over what basically amounts to a semantics issue in regards to the bodycam as evidence? The county will take the path of least resistance. Who’s easier to deal with: a lawyer experienced in FOIA and public records access, or someone with questionable credibility using his family as a shield? Realistically, the county is more likely to craft a legal workaround that allows Hardin access, likely setting up appeals court ruling that criticizes the original decision. The document was entered as an exhibit—redacting how they did it was pointless, especially given Nick’s latest stream where he clearly states it was intended as evidence before he lost the Franks motion. On top of that, the ongoing situation with the clerk is only drawing more public attention.
Nick never had the makings of a good lawyer or good writer. The crackhead runs his mouth and says stupid, damaging shit.
- Joined
- Feb 25, 2024
elissa clips posted about a strike towards @MATIArchive410 youtube account for harassment & bullying. The consensus is that the Archiver was struck by the Balldo and I am inclined to believe them as the stream did have Jersh talking about the bodycam that Nick really does not want released or spoken about.
Archive
Edit: from copywrite to bulling and harassment.
Archive
Edit: from copywrite to bulling and harassment.
Last edited:
Neetness
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- Feb 23, 2020
Her mom looks like a fucking troon.
- Joined
- Jan 16, 2021
Seeing this man and this car reminded me of a short story I once read.
Auto-da-fé
I LIKE CARS. I always have; since I was a little lad I’ve liked the smell of
them, the sound of them, the shapes and colours and different sizes of
them. That’s what I played with when I was a lad: Tonka trucks,
Matchbox cars, you name one, I had it, I had them all. And now I’m a
driver, a pro, a knight of the road.
A man’s car defines him, you know. A reflection of the male superego,
Annie says, as she brings me my cup of tea. An extension of a latent
desire to sexually dominate other males. I think it must be those classes
she goes to. All Freud and sexual domination. I wouldn’t mind if some
of it ever came my way. But no. It’s always Not tonight, love, I’ve got me
monthlies. No wonder I’d rather wax the car.
Mind you, she’s a beauty. Midnight-blue BMW. Alloy wheels, leather
seats, walnut trim. Class. She’s what I’d have myself if I could afford
her. But she’s not mine. She belongs to the company, and the company
could take her away tomorrow. Ask yourself how that feels. On the
other hand, don’t. I’ve had enough of castration metaphors and womb-
traumas from Annie. Only she understands me. She and I – a perfect
unit, speeding thrice daily along the M1 between Leeds and Sheffield,
bearers of the eternal flame of Matthew McArnold & Son Ltd, soft
furnishers to the world.
In my business, you get to understand cars. Cars of all sorts: Corsas
and Golfs for student nurses called Hayley, battered Escorts for spotty
economics students at the Poly, 2CVs or reconned Beetles for cute little
actressy types called Kate, a matt-silver Lexus for her banker-made-good
Dad, Len, who’s having an illicit affair with the tennis-club secretary,
Jan, a well-preserved forty-five with a Ford Ka and a dirty mind. On my
run, you get to know the regulars. That Asian bloke in the brown Nissan
Sunny who always hogs the middle lane. That blonde in the turquoise
Cinquecento, checking her lipstick in the rear-view mirror by the exit to
Junction 37. The white van from Junction 36, with a rag dangling from
the ladder sticking out from his back end. The red Probe – now there’s
one for Annie’s psych group – who zooms along the fast lane at ninety
mph and honks at anything in his way. Including that unmarked white
police car – hello boys, I can see you in your Rover 500 – oops, too late.
You see, it pays to know your cars.
V-Man, for instance. You must have seen him: black Volvo saloon,
black spoilers, tinted windscreen, Top Gun shades. V-Man really gets up
my nose. He thinks he’s better than the rest of us, with his limited-
edition sunroof and his personalized number-plate: KE 51. Fact is, he’s
not. But we always have to go through it all the same, V-Man and me,
nose to nose, like gladiators, every bloody morning.
Thing is, I’m a good driver. I’ve had the car twelve months – she was
my Rep of the Year incentive – and I’ve never even put a scratch on her;
never even got a ticket. I might bend the rules once in a while – well,
speed limits aren’t made to be taken literally, and I find a couple of
drinks actually help my concentration – but I can drive, I know the
roads and the people and I can drive. It’s the ones like V-Man that are
really dangerous. The ones that think they’re something and want to
prove it. Me, I’m just a driver; I mean it’s a job. It’s not like it’s my life
or anything. That would just be too sad. But V-Man – he drives as if it’s
personal; as if there was more at stake than just space; and when he
dodges between two articulated lorries into the fast lane and pulls away
at eighty-five, you can just see him thinking: Not so smart now, are you,
in your flash Beemer with your alloy trim; take a look at what a man can
do. And though I’ve never actually seen his face – the tinted glass gets
in the way – I know he’s a little balding twat with a trainee moustache
who gets bullied at the office and thinks he’s king of the road.
Not that I let it get to me; not usually, anyway. But today started
badly; woke up late, had to rush, there was a lane closed between
Junctions 36 and 37 and Annie’s started talking about taking time out to
consider our options, which probably means she’s seeing another fella –
or worse still, she’s getting broody – and all I really needed to make it a
totally shitty day instead of just a crap one was for V-Man to show up,
all bright and shiny in his black Volvo, and try to put one over on me
on the sly.
Of course, I usually win. Nine times out of ten I win, because a BMW
runs rings round a limited-edition Volvo any day of the week, but this
morning I had this feeling he’d try it on, as if he sensed something was
wrong and thought he’d chance it. Well, I was right. I spotted him
coming off the slip road from Junction 36 – bang on time as usual.
Pulled right out into the middle lane in front of me, no indicator, no
signal, no mirror. What a wanker. Of course, he does it on purpose. He
thinks it winds me up. I flashed at him, speeded right up to his back
bumper and flashed again. Then I overtook him, nice and smooth into
the fast lane, and moved back into the middle lane in front of him,
giving him the indicator signal – twice for each side, to make sure he
got the message. You’d have thought that would have been it. But some
people just have to keep at it, don’t they, needling away, nagging at you
until something in you just snaps and you give them a good thump and
before you know it it’s: You can’t do that to me, you bastard, I’m off to me
Mam’s, as if they hadn’t asked for it in the first place and now you’re
somehow to blame. Well, that’s V-Man. He overtook me a minute later –
never mind he couldn’t beat the red Probe just coming up behind him –
just took off into the fast lane with the Probe up his arse and gave me a
little wave as he passed. I couldn’t see his face, what with the shades he
was wearing, but I did see he was wearing driving gloves – the leather
kind, with the breathable lining – and somehow that did it for me. I’d
never met this bloke and suddenly I knew everything about him. Knew
it, and hated his guts.
He’s called Keith or maybe Ken, and he works in sales. He’s forty-five
and he hasn’t had a shag for over a year, not since his wife (thirty-nine,
ash blonde, Honda Civic) went off with some bloke she met in Hatha
Yoga. He wears suits from Moss Bros and shirts from Marks & Sparks;
and there’s always an extra shirt on a hanger in the back of the car, just
in case he gets sweaty before an important meeting. He chose a Volvo
because they’re safe, but he made sure it was a black sporty model
because to him that says young, free, and ready for action. He wears
shades even on cloudy days, and driving gloves – as if he might get
blisters – even though he’s got power steering, and he’s listening to
Radio Two right now, and they’re playing Dire Straits’ ‘Sultans of
Swing’, with Terry Wogan just beginning to fade out the long guitar
solo for the eight o’clock pips (I hate it when they do that, the solo’s the
best part), and he’s singing along, or maybe trying a few rim-shots on
the edge of his leather-trimmed steering wheel and thinking how he’d
kill for a Strat just like Knopfler’s, he’s always wanted one and now he’s
free and single again, no kids, no alimony, he might be able to afford
one. For a second he imagines himself going into one of those music
shops off Boar Lane in Leeds and idling around the guitars hanging off
the walls like trophies; perhaps turning to the grungy kid at the till and
saying in his most casual voice: I’d like to have a look at that Fender
Stratocaster. And the kid saying Sure, I’ll get you an amp, and is that a
smirk on his face as he turns away, and did he just say Granddad under
his breath, so softly that only he could hear him?
I told you, in that moment I knew it all; knew his loneliness and his
pathetic little fantasies and the way that when he hugged himself
tightly into the leather seats of the black Volvo he could almost imagine
he was someone else, that he was V-Man, Knight of the Road, tilting
bravely at every challenge, leaving Mercs and Jags and Beemers
standing in their tracks as he surfed ahead . . .
I couldn’t let him get away with it. It’s not that I’m sad or anything,
but I just couldn’t. It’s a matter of pride. I overtook him on the inside –
he was still hogging the fast lane – at insulting speed, giving him the
wanker sign all the way. He saw it all right: flipped me the finger and
speeded up again, but we were reaching the lane closure and fast-lane
traffic was slowing down, so I passed him again, grinning, and kissed
my middle finger to his diminishing windscreen.
It should have been over then. But it wasn’t my morning; as we
reached the roadworks the middle lane slowed down to a sudden crawl
– no one wanted to go into the slow lane, and the fast-laners were
pushing through at the last minute, even though they’d been given an
800-metre warning. They know there’s always some twat going to let
them in, especially if it’s a woman at the wheel. Me, I’d let them wait.
Let India or Saffron be late for her aromatherapy class; some of us have
a job to do.
But that’s why V-Man overtook me again; most of the other fast-
laners had already pulled in, but not him. He came nosing past me, eyes
forward, hunched a little over the wheel. I noticed he had a dashboard
toy shaped like Kenny out of South Park; somehow it was typical of
what I knew of him, and it set my teeth even further on edge. But I
might even have let that go if he hadn’t done what he did next. There
was a girl in a white MG at the head of the line, indicating to be let in.
Red Probe was two cars ahead of me, with a white minivan and a green
Corolla next in line. I didn’t see the Probe letting anyone in – he was in
too much of a hurry as usual – but the minivan honked at the girl to let
her through, and she filtered into lane ahead of me. So far, so good. V-
Man was stuffed. I certainly wasn’t going to let him in; the green
Corolla looked like a company car, not doing anyone any favours, so he
could indicate all he wanted, I was going to cruise past him, wanking
with both hands this time if I could manage it, and leave him in my
exhaust. That was the plan.
But V-Man’s one of those drivers who won’t let go, careless and
arrogant, but just pushy enough in some cases to get lucky. This was
one of them; at a crucial moment the minivan stalled, and seeing his
chance, V-Man pushed in hard after the white MG. He missed her back
bumper by an inch, almost swiped the van with the other end, but
lucked out all the same and swung back into the traffic towards his exit.
I might have left him to it even then, but for the little parp! he sent me
as he speeded up ahead, and the casual wave of his hand through the
tinted rear window.
That did it. Suddenly I saw red. I revved up the engine, swerved into
the slow lane and began in pursuit. It wasn’t my exit, and V-Man knew
it, which was why he’d dared make such an open challenge. But this
time, today of all days, I wasn’t having it. V-Man was in the slow lane,
backed up in traffic; I was five cars behind him as he entered the
sliproad. I swore, nipped off the road onto the hard shoulder and caught
him up that way – sod the cameras – so that when he reached the lights
at the main junction roundabout I was up close and personal, jammed
right up against his back bumper and glaring at him in his rear-view
mirror.
I could see that had rattled him. He was staring straight ahead,
waiting for the lights to change. I could see him watching me in the
mirror, though; every few seconds I sensed his rabbity eyes flicking to
the lights, then to the mirror, where I was grinning fiercely at him and
mouthing insults. I took off my seat belt, to see what he’d do, then
opened my side door a crack. By now V-Man was shitting bricks. When
I put a leg out the door, he jumped a mile and hit the lock button,
glancing back at me with his shades slipping off his nose. I pushed a
little closer, flashing my headlamps at him, then the lights changed and
I slammed the door and moved off in pursuit. It was a route I’d never
taken before. Usually it’s the M1, back and forth from Sheffield to
Leeds, but now I’d got tangled up in my quarry’s trail and I knew I was
pushing it to get to work on time. It didn’t matter, though; I was going
to show V-Man who was boss once and for all; even if it meant running
the little shit off the road. We raced five or six miles along a dual
carriageway heading towards Bradford, and though he tried to lose me,
he had no chance. I stayed right up against his bumper, right up his
arse all the way, and there were no more little parps and waves; V-Man
was dead serious now, eyes fixed straight ahead, occasionally glancing
back into the rear-view mirror in that nervous, hunted way. He tried
speeding up, dodging between lorries to lose me, but I followed him.
Then he slowed to a crawl, hoping I’d overtake him, but I slowed as
well. Finally he pulled into a roadside services, dodged through the
lorry park, through the petrol-station and parked in front of Burger
King, engine idling, daring me to follow him there.
Showdown.
I parked opposite him and we stood for a moment, windshield-to-
windshield, observing each other. I cracked my door open; waited. His
stayed closed. I stepped out onto the tarmac and put on my sunglasses,
shielding my eyes against the morning sun. He stayed, holed in like a
terrified rabbit, watching me as I walked slowly up to the black Volvo.
Now I was so close I could see it wasn’t quite as shiny as I’d thought;
there was a little rust on the bottom of the passenger door, and there
were signs of bodywork around the left headlamp. Through the smoked
glass I could see V-Man watching me with his mobile in one hand. As I
watched he held up the mobile in a weakly threatening gesture, as if he
were planning to phone the police.
‘Get out,’ I said quietly.
Through the glass, V-Man shook his head.
I kicked the side of the Volvo’s door, hard enough to dislodge rust.
‘Get out,’ I repeated.
The driver’s side window opened a crack. ‘I’m calling the police,’ said
V-Man in a high, wavery voice. Behind it came the faint sound of Radio
Two playing ‘Band of Gold’ (Frieda Payne, 1970).
‘Call away, you little twat,’ I said, and put my fist through his
window. Fake diamonds on everything. It hurt, but it felt good all the
same: I could feel the ratchet of small bones in my bruised knuckles. ‘Is
that enough sexual domination for you, you little twat? Does that make
you feel fulfilled?’
It wasn’t quite what I’d been planning to say, but I saw his eyes
widen with fear. ‘I . . . Look, I’ve got money,’ he said. ‘Take it. The
phone, too.’ He held out a wallet, black leather, like his driving gloves,
his hand trembling so much I could barely see it clearly. Bloody hell,
what did he think I wanted?
‘You cut me off,’ I said, ignoring the outstretched wallet. ‘Nobody
cuts me off.’ It was what I should have said to Annie this morning, I
told myself. I wished Annie could see me now. Might give her
something to think about other than that poncey psychology teacher of
hers.
V-Man was looking at me in fearful incomprehension. ‘C-cut you off?’
he stammered.
‘Dead right,’ I said. I reached through the broken window and opened
the driver’s door. ‘And now I’m going to cut you off, you little twat.’
V-Man was still watching me, eyes glazed. ‘I’m a married man,’ he
whispered. ‘I’ve got children—’
‘No you haven’t,’ I told him, knowing it was true.
‘No, I haven’t,’ whispered V-Man.
‘Is your name Keith or Ken?’ I demanded.
‘K-Kenny.’
That explained the dash toy. And looking inside the car now, I could
see his life: his jacket hung up on a wire hanger, his cheap briefcase, an
old picture of a blonde woman – she’d be called Penny, or Connie, or
Frannie, some crap like that – Blu-Tacked to the glove compartment; a
Magic Tree air-freshener dangling from the rear-view mirror; a copy of
Arena – stolen from a colleague at work – lying on the back seat to give
the impression he was young and fancy-free; and behind it all, behind
the smell of his sweat and the reek of that air-freshener and the leather
of his driving gloves and the musty smell of car I could smell that
terrible, familiar scent – like piss, like old takeaway meals, like
unemptied ashtrays and stale underwear – of hopelessness, despair, and
decaying illusions.
‘What are you going to do?’ whispered V-Man.
I’d almost forgotten him in that wave of loathsome understanding; I
looked down now and saw his fat and cheesy face, his weak eyes, his
receding hair, the darkly spreading stain at the crotch of his Moss Bros
trousers.
My hand was throbbing fiercely where I’d broken the window; I
massaged my knuckles – bloody stupid thing to do, punching the glass;
could have broken a bone. To make matters worse, my other hand was
already bruised from earlier this morning. My head, too, was sore; in
spite of my Ray-Bans, the morning sun always seems to get me straight
in the eyes. My mobile was ringing – I could hear it very faintly in the
distance, behind the sound of the car radio (‘Band of Gold’ was merging
into Queen’s ‘We Are the Champions’) – probably work asking why I
was late, or Annie wanting to finish that discussion we started earlier –
If you were a man, Benny, you wouldn’t always need to prove to yourself
that you’re not a loser – what does she know, silly cow? I showed her,
anyway; I showed her properly this time, and never mind that she
threatened to call the police, you can only drive a man so far. He
knows, V-Man, sitting shivering in his mock-leather seat smelling the
piss drying on his fifty-quid Moss Bros trousers. He knows who the loser
is in this game, and it isn’t me.
I showed them this time. I showed them both. No one cuts me up; no
one plays me for a loser. I walked back to the car, got in, turned up the
radio (Pink Floyd, ‘Another Brick in the Wall, Part II’), adjusted my
dashboard mascot (Bart Simpson), pulled on my gloves and revved off
into the sunrise, while behind me lights flashed and sirens wailed and
that phantom smell of piss, of loser, kept getting stronger and stronger,
even as I drove away.
I LIKE CARS. I always have; since I was a little lad I’ve liked the smell of
them, the sound of them, the shapes and colours and different sizes of
them. That’s what I played with when I was a lad: Tonka trucks,
Matchbox cars, you name one, I had it, I had them all. And now I’m a
driver, a pro, a knight of the road.
A man’s car defines him, you know. A reflection of the male superego,
Annie says, as she brings me my cup of tea. An extension of a latent
desire to sexually dominate other males. I think it must be those classes
she goes to. All Freud and sexual domination. I wouldn’t mind if some
of it ever came my way. But no. It’s always Not tonight, love, I’ve got me
monthlies. No wonder I’d rather wax the car.
Mind you, she’s a beauty. Midnight-blue BMW. Alloy wheels, leather
seats, walnut trim. Class. She’s what I’d have myself if I could afford
her. But she’s not mine. She belongs to the company, and the company
could take her away tomorrow. Ask yourself how that feels. On the
other hand, don’t. I’ve had enough of castration metaphors and womb-
traumas from Annie. Only she understands me. She and I – a perfect
unit, speeding thrice daily along the M1 between Leeds and Sheffield,
bearers of the eternal flame of Matthew McArnold & Son Ltd, soft
furnishers to the world.
In my business, you get to understand cars. Cars of all sorts: Corsas
and Golfs for student nurses called Hayley, battered Escorts for spotty
economics students at the Poly, 2CVs or reconned Beetles for cute little
actressy types called Kate, a matt-silver Lexus for her banker-made-good
Dad, Len, who’s having an illicit affair with the tennis-club secretary,
Jan, a well-preserved forty-five with a Ford Ka and a dirty mind. On my
run, you get to know the regulars. That Asian bloke in the brown Nissan
Sunny who always hogs the middle lane. That blonde in the turquoise
Cinquecento, checking her lipstick in the rear-view mirror by the exit to
Junction 37. The white van from Junction 36, with a rag dangling from
the ladder sticking out from his back end. The red Probe – now there’s
one for Annie’s psych group – who zooms along the fast lane at ninety
mph and honks at anything in his way. Including that unmarked white
police car – hello boys, I can see you in your Rover 500 – oops, too late.
You see, it pays to know your cars.
V-Man, for instance. You must have seen him: black Volvo saloon,
black spoilers, tinted windscreen, Top Gun shades. V-Man really gets up
my nose. He thinks he’s better than the rest of us, with his limited-
edition sunroof and his personalized number-plate: KE 51. Fact is, he’s
not. But we always have to go through it all the same, V-Man and me,
nose to nose, like gladiators, every bloody morning.
Thing is, I’m a good driver. I’ve had the car twelve months – she was
my Rep of the Year incentive – and I’ve never even put a scratch on her;
never even got a ticket. I might bend the rules once in a while – well,
speed limits aren’t made to be taken literally, and I find a couple of
drinks actually help my concentration – but I can drive, I know the
roads and the people and I can drive. It’s the ones like V-Man that are
really dangerous. The ones that think they’re something and want to
prove it. Me, I’m just a driver; I mean it’s a job. It’s not like it’s my life
or anything. That would just be too sad. But V-Man – he drives as if it’s
personal; as if there was more at stake than just space; and when he
dodges between two articulated lorries into the fast lane and pulls away
at eighty-five, you can just see him thinking: Not so smart now, are you,
in your flash Beemer with your alloy trim; take a look at what a man can
do. And though I’ve never actually seen his face – the tinted glass gets
in the way – I know he’s a little balding twat with a trainee moustache
who gets bullied at the office and thinks he’s king of the road.
Not that I let it get to me; not usually, anyway. But today started
badly; woke up late, had to rush, there was a lane closed between
Junctions 36 and 37 and Annie’s started talking about taking time out to
consider our options, which probably means she’s seeing another fella –
or worse still, she’s getting broody – and all I really needed to make it a
totally shitty day instead of just a crap one was for V-Man to show up,
all bright and shiny in his black Volvo, and try to put one over on me
on the sly.
Of course, I usually win. Nine times out of ten I win, because a BMW
runs rings round a limited-edition Volvo any day of the week, but this
morning I had this feeling he’d try it on, as if he sensed something was
wrong and thought he’d chance it. Well, I was right. I spotted him
coming off the slip road from Junction 36 – bang on time as usual.
Pulled right out into the middle lane in front of me, no indicator, no
signal, no mirror. What a wanker. Of course, he does it on purpose. He
thinks it winds me up. I flashed at him, speeded right up to his back
bumper and flashed again. Then I overtook him, nice and smooth into
the fast lane, and moved back into the middle lane in front of him,
giving him the indicator signal – twice for each side, to make sure he
got the message. You’d have thought that would have been it. But some
people just have to keep at it, don’t they, needling away, nagging at you
until something in you just snaps and you give them a good thump and
before you know it it’s: You can’t do that to me, you bastard, I’m off to me
Mam’s, as if they hadn’t asked for it in the first place and now you’re
somehow to blame. Well, that’s V-Man. He overtook me a minute later –
never mind he couldn’t beat the red Probe just coming up behind him –
just took off into the fast lane with the Probe up his arse and gave me a
little wave as he passed. I couldn’t see his face, what with the shades he
was wearing, but I did see he was wearing driving gloves – the leather
kind, with the breathable lining – and somehow that did it for me. I’d
never met this bloke and suddenly I knew everything about him. Knew
it, and hated his guts.
He’s called Keith or maybe Ken, and he works in sales. He’s forty-five
and he hasn’t had a shag for over a year, not since his wife (thirty-nine,
ash blonde, Honda Civic) went off with some bloke she met in Hatha
Yoga. He wears suits from Moss Bros and shirts from Marks & Sparks;
and there’s always an extra shirt on a hanger in the back of the car, just
in case he gets sweaty before an important meeting. He chose a Volvo
because they’re safe, but he made sure it was a black sporty model
because to him that says young, free, and ready for action. He wears
shades even on cloudy days, and driving gloves – as if he might get
blisters – even though he’s got power steering, and he’s listening to
Radio Two right now, and they’re playing Dire Straits’ ‘Sultans of
Swing’, with Terry Wogan just beginning to fade out the long guitar
solo for the eight o’clock pips (I hate it when they do that, the solo’s the
best part), and he’s singing along, or maybe trying a few rim-shots on
the edge of his leather-trimmed steering wheel and thinking how he’d
kill for a Strat just like Knopfler’s, he’s always wanted one and now he’s
free and single again, no kids, no alimony, he might be able to afford
one. For a second he imagines himself going into one of those music
shops off Boar Lane in Leeds and idling around the guitars hanging off
the walls like trophies; perhaps turning to the grungy kid at the till and
saying in his most casual voice: I’d like to have a look at that Fender
Stratocaster. And the kid saying Sure, I’ll get you an amp, and is that a
smirk on his face as he turns away, and did he just say Granddad under
his breath, so softly that only he could hear him?
I told you, in that moment I knew it all; knew his loneliness and his
pathetic little fantasies and the way that when he hugged himself
tightly into the leather seats of the black Volvo he could almost imagine
he was someone else, that he was V-Man, Knight of the Road, tilting
bravely at every challenge, leaving Mercs and Jags and Beemers
standing in their tracks as he surfed ahead . . .
I couldn’t let him get away with it. It’s not that I’m sad or anything,
but I just couldn’t. It’s a matter of pride. I overtook him on the inside –
he was still hogging the fast lane – at insulting speed, giving him the
wanker sign all the way. He saw it all right: flipped me the finger and
speeded up again, but we were reaching the lane closure and fast-lane
traffic was slowing down, so I passed him again, grinning, and kissed
my middle finger to his diminishing windscreen.
It should have been over then. But it wasn’t my morning; as we
reached the roadworks the middle lane slowed down to a sudden crawl
– no one wanted to go into the slow lane, and the fast-laners were
pushing through at the last minute, even though they’d been given an
800-metre warning. They know there’s always some twat going to let
them in, especially if it’s a woman at the wheel. Me, I’d let them wait.
Let India or Saffron be late for her aromatherapy class; some of us have
a job to do.
But that’s why V-Man overtook me again; most of the other fast-
laners had already pulled in, but not him. He came nosing past me, eyes
forward, hunched a little over the wheel. I noticed he had a dashboard
toy shaped like Kenny out of South Park; somehow it was typical of
what I knew of him, and it set my teeth even further on edge. But I
might even have let that go if he hadn’t done what he did next. There
was a girl in a white MG at the head of the line, indicating to be let in.
Red Probe was two cars ahead of me, with a white minivan and a green
Corolla next in line. I didn’t see the Probe letting anyone in – he was in
too much of a hurry as usual – but the minivan honked at the girl to let
her through, and she filtered into lane ahead of me. So far, so good. V-
Man was stuffed. I certainly wasn’t going to let him in; the green
Corolla looked like a company car, not doing anyone any favours, so he
could indicate all he wanted, I was going to cruise past him, wanking
with both hands this time if I could manage it, and leave him in my
exhaust. That was the plan.
But V-Man’s one of those drivers who won’t let go, careless and
arrogant, but just pushy enough in some cases to get lucky. This was
one of them; at a crucial moment the minivan stalled, and seeing his
chance, V-Man pushed in hard after the white MG. He missed her back
bumper by an inch, almost swiped the van with the other end, but
lucked out all the same and swung back into the traffic towards his exit.
I might have left him to it even then, but for the little parp! he sent me
as he speeded up ahead, and the casual wave of his hand through the
tinted rear window.
That did it. Suddenly I saw red. I revved up the engine, swerved into
the slow lane and began in pursuit. It wasn’t my exit, and V-Man knew
it, which was why he’d dared make such an open challenge. But this
time, today of all days, I wasn’t having it. V-Man was in the slow lane,
backed up in traffic; I was five cars behind him as he entered the
sliproad. I swore, nipped off the road onto the hard shoulder and caught
him up that way – sod the cameras – so that when he reached the lights
at the main junction roundabout I was up close and personal, jammed
right up against his back bumper and glaring at him in his rear-view
mirror.
I could see that had rattled him. He was staring straight ahead,
waiting for the lights to change. I could see him watching me in the
mirror, though; every few seconds I sensed his rabbity eyes flicking to
the lights, then to the mirror, where I was grinning fiercely at him and
mouthing insults. I took off my seat belt, to see what he’d do, then
opened my side door a crack. By now V-Man was shitting bricks. When
I put a leg out the door, he jumped a mile and hit the lock button,
glancing back at me with his shades slipping off his nose. I pushed a
little closer, flashing my headlamps at him, then the lights changed and
I slammed the door and moved off in pursuit. It was a route I’d never
taken before. Usually it’s the M1, back and forth from Sheffield to
Leeds, but now I’d got tangled up in my quarry’s trail and I knew I was
pushing it to get to work on time. It didn’t matter, though; I was going
to show V-Man who was boss once and for all; even if it meant running
the little shit off the road. We raced five or six miles along a dual
carriageway heading towards Bradford, and though he tried to lose me,
he had no chance. I stayed right up against his bumper, right up his
arse all the way, and there were no more little parps and waves; V-Man
was dead serious now, eyes fixed straight ahead, occasionally glancing
back into the rear-view mirror in that nervous, hunted way. He tried
speeding up, dodging between lorries to lose me, but I followed him.
Then he slowed to a crawl, hoping I’d overtake him, but I slowed as
well. Finally he pulled into a roadside services, dodged through the
lorry park, through the petrol-station and parked in front of Burger
King, engine idling, daring me to follow him there.
Showdown.
I parked opposite him and we stood for a moment, windshield-to-
windshield, observing each other. I cracked my door open; waited. His
stayed closed. I stepped out onto the tarmac and put on my sunglasses,
shielding my eyes against the morning sun. He stayed, holed in like a
terrified rabbit, watching me as I walked slowly up to the black Volvo.
Now I was so close I could see it wasn’t quite as shiny as I’d thought;
there was a little rust on the bottom of the passenger door, and there
were signs of bodywork around the left headlamp. Through the smoked
glass I could see V-Man watching me with his mobile in one hand. As I
watched he held up the mobile in a weakly threatening gesture, as if he
were planning to phone the police.
‘Get out,’ I said quietly.
Through the glass, V-Man shook his head.
I kicked the side of the Volvo’s door, hard enough to dislodge rust.
‘Get out,’ I repeated.
The driver’s side window opened a crack. ‘I’m calling the police,’ said
V-Man in a high, wavery voice. Behind it came the faint sound of Radio
Two playing ‘Band of Gold’ (Frieda Payne, 1970).
‘Call away, you little twat,’ I said, and put my fist through his
window. Fake diamonds on everything. It hurt, but it felt good all the
same: I could feel the ratchet of small bones in my bruised knuckles. ‘Is
that enough sexual domination for you, you little twat? Does that make
you feel fulfilled?’
It wasn’t quite what I’d been planning to say, but I saw his eyes
widen with fear. ‘I . . . Look, I’ve got money,’ he said. ‘Take it. The
phone, too.’ He held out a wallet, black leather, like his driving gloves,
his hand trembling so much I could barely see it clearly. Bloody hell,
what did he think I wanted?
‘You cut me off,’ I said, ignoring the outstretched wallet. ‘Nobody
cuts me off.’ It was what I should have said to Annie this morning, I
told myself. I wished Annie could see me now. Might give her
something to think about other than that poncey psychology teacher of
hers.
V-Man was looking at me in fearful incomprehension. ‘C-cut you off?’
he stammered.
‘Dead right,’ I said. I reached through the broken window and opened
the driver’s door. ‘And now I’m going to cut you off, you little twat.’
V-Man was still watching me, eyes glazed. ‘I’m a married man,’ he
whispered. ‘I’ve got children—’
‘No you haven’t,’ I told him, knowing it was true.
‘No, I haven’t,’ whispered V-Man.
‘Is your name Keith or Ken?’ I demanded.
‘K-Kenny.’
That explained the dash toy. And looking inside the car now, I could
see his life: his jacket hung up on a wire hanger, his cheap briefcase, an
old picture of a blonde woman – she’d be called Penny, or Connie, or
Frannie, some crap like that – Blu-Tacked to the glove compartment; a
Magic Tree air-freshener dangling from the rear-view mirror; a copy of
Arena – stolen from a colleague at work – lying on the back seat to give
the impression he was young and fancy-free; and behind it all, behind
the smell of his sweat and the reek of that air-freshener and the leather
of his driving gloves and the musty smell of car I could smell that
terrible, familiar scent – like piss, like old takeaway meals, like
unemptied ashtrays and stale underwear – of hopelessness, despair, and
decaying illusions.
‘What are you going to do?’ whispered V-Man.
I’d almost forgotten him in that wave of loathsome understanding; I
looked down now and saw his fat and cheesy face, his weak eyes, his
receding hair, the darkly spreading stain at the crotch of his Moss Bros
trousers.
My hand was throbbing fiercely where I’d broken the window; I
massaged my knuckles – bloody stupid thing to do, punching the glass;
could have broken a bone. To make matters worse, my other hand was
already bruised from earlier this morning. My head, too, was sore; in
spite of my Ray-Bans, the morning sun always seems to get me straight
in the eyes. My mobile was ringing – I could hear it very faintly in the
distance, behind the sound of the car radio (‘Band of Gold’ was merging
into Queen’s ‘We Are the Champions’) – probably work asking why I
was late, or Annie wanting to finish that discussion we started earlier –
If you were a man, Benny, you wouldn’t always need to prove to yourself
that you’re not a loser – what does she know, silly cow? I showed her,
anyway; I showed her properly this time, and never mind that she
threatened to call the police, you can only drive a man so far. He
knows, V-Man, sitting shivering in his mock-leather seat smelling the
piss drying on his fifty-quid Moss Bros trousers. He knows who the loser
is in this game, and it isn’t me.
I showed them this time. I showed them both. No one cuts me up; no
one plays me for a loser. I walked back to the car, got in, turned up the
radio (Pink Floyd, ‘Another Brick in the Wall, Part II’), adjusted my
dashboard mascot (Bart Simpson), pulled on my gloves and revved off
into the sunrise, while behind me lights flashed and sirens wailed and
that phantom smell of piss, of loser, kept getting stronger and stronger,
even as I drove away.
oh no im late for school
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- Nov 13, 2021
woah woah woah hold on there, you forgot the vinDuly noted. This is what Carfax says. We know his license plate (and License #), etc. This seems unimportant, but I don't speak car.
This was all before his traffic violations in the Mustang and subsequent arrest in 2024. It is a bit odd that it was listed AFTER he bought it but I assume that was simply a data entry/update thing.
- Joined
- Dec 17, 2022
- Joined
- Dec 25, 2017
That faggot went to the trouble of getting a Shelby…and got an automatic? So not only is he driving a bitch made pony car, he’s driving the even bitchier version of it. What, are his legs too weak to engage a clutch?
urr13 account
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- Nov 23, 2021
His nose is quite substantial, larger than most.
- Joined
- Jan 16, 2021
It's not copyright (if it was, copyright owner would have to identify themselves), it's "harassment and bullying".