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This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any actual person, living, dead, or anywhere in between, is purely a figment of your own sick, twisted imagination. You really ought to seek professional help for that. Erasmus Taft knew damned well he was driving too fast, and he giggled like a stoned teenager.
But hey, driving too fast? How about driving too fast down a steep mountain track no fool would dignify by calling it a road, the pavement so old it had long since broken into loose, rattling chunks? On the wrong side of the car even, but not really , because Dominica was like England, and like England, their cars were built like that too.
Even the gearshift was on the wrong side, but only of his big white ass, because it was in the middle as always. It was Ras who was on the wrong side in that case, which made him snicker even more.
He looked over at his half-empty bottle of St. Except for the bottle of rum, which was, he thought smugly, right where it belonged. He strained to understand the heavily accented voice of the man on the scratchy island AM radio over the blasting storm outside the car. Vines and branches flew across the road, slapping at his windows like angry protesters. But he stayed cool; he was in control.