The Phantom Driver

It's 1971 near the shifty Gulf of Mexico. In a forgotten neighborhood on the dark side of town, two cops investigate an abandoned car.

The Law casually drove along the crumbling road buckled from heat and flooding storms. It was a heavy, devil-hell-hot dusk, and an audience of cicadas shrilled loudly as their car created an uneven crushing beat as they pulled over and behind the parked auto in question. Getting out the young cop proclaimed, "Phshoo! Smell that? That ain't da refineries that's fo sho."

The older cop's blue dewy eyes followed a languid hosepipe attached to the exhaust to a partly rolled-up back set window. In the metallic, midnight black, doomed, sweet-smelling Cheville was a young, bloated man slumped on his side, decomposing on a bed of maps and half-filled notebooks.

"Uh-huh. Look like we got another raggedy-ass, self-inflicted one. What da hell drives 'em? Mm. Sinful. Poor hell-bound, death highway bastard. Mm.", grunted the older cop.

They indeed found me there just off a benign, unfinished road beside the swampy, big lake. A supposed suicide. No suicide. That's what I did, but not of my own free will. I was driven to death. Yes. Yes sir. I was. I was made a wreck. Thanks to a Voodoo queen, I shed my protective hardtop. My soul was reshaped into a phantom with the power to wipe out the Evil Ones.

The Evil Ones want control over the Creatives. They can't allow free-wheeling people. Those who are freewheelers won't stay within the lines of their programmed, mediocre, driven, shit society.

I haul my ass back to life and drive my death-proof chrome steed and slay all the evil, soul-killing bastard Evil Ones. I am The Phantom Driver.