Lou drove. Not like he did when his kids were strapped into the child seats. He drove like he did twenty years ago. Guiding the new roadster into the first curves of Topanga Canyon, his foot pressed firmly to the floor, his heart raced. It was freedom. The kind he hadn’t felt in years of acting as Mexican drug lords and stereotypical thugs. The layers of resentment, carefully cultivated over the years, had hardened into an impenetrable shell impervious to joy.

The wondrous mix of wind and machine was interrupted by a mechanical, shrill ring. Pushing down the urge to chuck it into the ocean, he checked his phone. It was his agent; good news?

“Al! What’s up?” answered Lou.

“LD! Good news, I booked a video!”, said Al.

“Music Video? They still do those?”

“Yeah! It’s a killer band, Imagine Dragons. The kids DIG it!”

He could use a little street cred. “Hunh…Pitch it.”

“Okay; you’re a Kingpin leader of an underground, killer-muppet fighting ring.”

Al’s voice was cut short as the phone sailed into the air.