Dodge Charger and Pink Fishnets

The old man did not know quite what to make out of the retread hooker hanging out of the side of a beat up classic Dodge Charger. The Arizona license plate on the rear of the automobile read such a muscle car deserved the title of retro antique in spite of the trailer hitch and dangling electrical wire connectors meant for whatever wagon this fried out grey hair wildabeast who looked like he had just passed through the center of a cyclone towed in his spare time, mentally debilitated yet with enough insight to land the streetwalking pride of North Las Vegas. During the brief time at the stop light this lady took the time to tempt the other old geezer at the light who happen to be riding a moped, maybe it had something to do with his mirrored shades or she had a thing for men in their seventies or fifties who had spent way too many years ingesting narcotics in order to cultivate that Keith Richards/Iggy Pop look. Pink fishnets covered her arms anchored by the fold between her thumb and index finger, tan suede jacket, bright red lipstick with protruding tongue aimed in the direction of moped man who sat their frozen ignoring her presence or slowly rising to a boil where at such point he would pull the tramp out over the door and force her to give him oral sex in the street, however such a tipping point never occured and I got to watch the hooker continue flick her tongue at Mr. Moped, licking her lips, while I imagine jacking off the driver of the Dodge Charger who did not appear to be conscious of his time on planet earth. He did react to the signal change while the woman gave moped man a psuedo hand near the mouth jack off send away. The car nearly drove up on the edge of the curb heading toward a small gathering of people waiting for the bus. No one appeared phased, disturbed, or even slightly aware of the impending tragedy coming toward them, not one flinched, just a swift adjustment of the steering wheel as the Charger regained course in the direction of the nearby low rent apartments, where robbery, drug sales, and prostitution occur as frequently as the movement of the second hand on a clock, right down the street from the neighborhood police precient, just as the manic sociopath driver hung an a left turn on a red light in front of the police building in the process of a myriad of potential felonies. People with nothing to lose never care about laws the rest of us who so tightly cling to what little we have all too willingly obey. The hooker was hanging half way out the window now, back in her home turf, giving the cop shack the middle finger, showing her beat up twat to whoever might be staring out the window as the driver began to fumble around in a black duffle bag looking for something to turn this street creature fresh sushi.