MR Z

I was driving home tonight, piloting my ebony steed with casual aplomb down Fullarton Road when I saw something ridiculous looming behind me. It was a black 4WD which caught my attention because as it approached, it was ziggin' and zaggin' through the sparse traffic obviously on some kind of time-critical mission. Each lane change was celebrated with a single crisp flash of the indicatior after 90% of the lane change had been completed. Impressive.

Anyway, as it pulled up behind me, I could see it was an Audi 4WD. I didn't even know Audi made them. And it was immaculate black, like someone polished it with a freshly slaughtered baby bunny every day. The jet black wanker-plates announced that the driver was a "MR Z".

So far so good, except Mr Z was the spitting image of Rader O'Reilly from M*A*S*H, except perhaps shorter. I only caught a quick glimpse as I was at a red light and he manouvered his black ego chariot to within 5mm of my towbar, obviously comforted to be 100mm closer to his eventual destination than would have been the case had be pulled up normally.

Anyway, the light went green and I blasted off the line, my parched power steering reservoir causing the belts to add a satisfying whine to the engine's usual masculine roar. Seconds later, MR Z streaked past, speeding to the next set of lights, to repeat the effort of attepting to fellate the exhaust pipe of the car in front with his prefectly chromed boutique front bumper.

Bye MR Z, bye!