Abar Filayar bin Zauyar al Haki was a speed demon. At the age of eighteen he collected race cars with the same gusto as a gawky eyed geek collected postage stamps. His garage was a magpie nest of sparkling Bugattis, shiny Lamborghinis, flashy Ferraris, and glistening Porches.
Where most people read the back of the cornflakes box during breakfast, Abar Filayar browsed the latest edition of Fast Cars. It was quite normal for a new car in the catalogue to catch his eye every other day. He was a race-car-Romeo who fell for every passing automobile that could do 300mph and above. He daydreamed about car engines. The fumes of a sports car gave him a high that no feminine perfume could compete with. The castle he built in the air had its own super-highway drawbridge and a moat filled with Mitsubishis and Nissans.
He dreamed of going from zero to 300mph in under a second. He was not the sort of teenager that pursued knowledge. He had already pursued it, shot it, stuffed it, and hung it on his bedroom wall. He didn’t much care for an education. It was easier to buy a degree. He had no need for companionship—he’d only eat it, crap it out, and flush it down the toilet. He didn’t wish for fame—he already had infamy.
It was not rare to find him stroking the sides of his Bugatti Veyron EB 16.4 or polishing the headlights of his Lamborghini Diablo. He’d spend nights on end fondling the steering wheel of his Ferrari 288 GTO and exchanging long tender glances with the headlights of his Porsche 959. It gave him peals of delight and pangs of pleasure when the rear view mirror of his Jaguar XJ220 fogged up from his close and heavy breathing. He fantasised about the day he’d go from zero to 300mph in under a second.
His favourite sports car, though, was, without a doubt, the SSC Ultimate Aero TT. He had pestered his dad for long minutes that nearly touched an hour till his father relented and decided to buy him the Ultimate Aero for his 18th birthday.
In the days leading up to the car’s delivery, he was almost sick with anticipation. Would this be the car that would take him from zero to 300mph in under a second?
When the sleek black car finally arrived at his doorstep he was not just over the moon but above it, across it, and beside it too. He couldn’t contain his excitement.
He was in awe of its twin turbocharged engine and its G-64 6-speed manual transmission. The titanium and carbon fibre body sent a thrill of rapture up his spine. He was lost in the cumulus realms of cloud nine as he thought about its engine displacement of 6.34 L and increased boost of 14 psi. He fantasised about doing 6950 rpm on 91 octane gasoline.
He had to touch it, feel it, take possession of it… He had to turn the ignition key and rev it up—gently at first and then harder and louder…
He had to get a move on. The vehicle made a smooth purring sound as he slipped it into gear and glided down the tarmac.
Abar Filayar’s excitement was indescribable. His heart did somersaults of delight. Great upheavals rocked his rotund belly. Tremors afflicted his thighs and his bowels had activity of the seismic kind.
If excitement was a girl he’d have kissed her on the lips and twirled her about. But since it was a car, he decided to hit the gas.
First stop, McDonald’s. He hadn’t eaten in days in anticipation of this moment. He felt light headed. He needed some soggy fries, greasy burgers, and a 5-litre super-bottle of Coke to feel right once again.
As his victuals slowly settled into the cavernous recesses of his enormous belly, Abar Filayar decided heaven was in its place and all was right with the world.
Cruising down the superhighway, he was in his element. All went well, until he realised the other drivers were too slow. He honked at them to get out of the way. He flashed his lights. He gesticulated wildly. He screamed obscenities. He changed lanes, first this way, then that. He zipped in and out. He tailgated and revved his engine.
As he zoomed past the sorry grey Mitsubishi, he gave the driver a look of contempt and floored the gas pedal. He rocketed past at an extraordinary speed. Signposts whizzed by. The tarmac sizzled. Wind blew like a hurricane. He felt like a king chimp that had trampled on the face of an upstart subordinate chimp.
However, his feeling of elation lasted no more than five seconds. For in the next instant, the front of his skull made its first introduction to the back of his head, just as his eyeballs and nose bridge were saying a hasty how-d’you-do to the trunk of a lamppost. His white teeth fell around him like a pearly necklace come undone. And his whiplashed neck flopped about like a kite stuck in a tree.
So, that was the end of Abar’s racecar romance. He had the singular fortune of going from 300mph to zero in under a second.
