Alvin pressed his Mossy Oak boot into the firewall of his ‘69 Chevelle. The engine roared, the beastly car surged forward, and Alvin was pinned to the driver’s seat with a black-toothed grin.

“Woooohoooo!” he yelled with the quick footwork of shifting gears. His scarred, mechanic’s knuckles and tattooed forearms worked the eight ball shifter with a drag racer’s expertise. The front tires briefly lifted, and the rear slicks barked as Alvin slammed the muscle car into 4th gear.

Lynyrd Skynyrd’s Freebird was nearly drowned out by the screaming pipes. The tilting car shifted a pile of camouflage Busch beer cans into the floor. Tucked between the seat cushions was a shiny Colt .45 automatic. On his belt, adorned with a gleaming Rebel flag buckle, there hung a long buck knife. On the seat next to him, sat a half finished bottle of Old No. 7, and a paper bag of cash.

Alvin’s veins coursed with methamphetamine and the adrenaline rush of armed robbery. He had knocked over his fifth liquor store in as many days.