The car rumbles along the country road, crumbled asphalt rattling under the tires. He flexes his hands on the steering wheel, watching the scenery go by. His errand - a cooler of some kind of vile smelling ectoplasm - is securely buckled into the back seat. Apparently it has been oozing out of the township's little public library. He had been the only one available on a slow Monday afternoon, so he had been sent out to retrieve a sample so that when the teams appointment with the township came up they would have more data to go on. At least he's getting paid for the time.
He looks out across the mowed fields, no city nor soul in sight. He directs his attention down at the speedometer.
50 miles per hour.
He pushes the old vehicle a little faster, knowing it can handle it from experience and the fact he had just given it a tune up before leaving. He knows that he could handle it.
60 miles per hour.
The car growls in approval. The road whips past and he knows he can avoid all the jostling potholes no problem.
70 miles per hour.
The wind whistles past the equipment on the roof in a shriek of joy. He cherishes this momentary lapse in law abiding, knowing that the opportunity may never come again.
80 miles per hour.
And for several wonderful minutes Roland and Ecto just fly, machine and man in perfect harmony.
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