Dylan roared up to Bobby's place with the Peter Gunn theme blasting out of the windows of his '04 Chevy Cobalt, a streak of white broken by the logo of the Drivers Ed company his dad had worked for for over thirty years. The drive ended with a skid of the back tires across the gravel as Dylan swung the car 90 degrees and slowed to park at the base of Bobby's front steps. The Chevy slid sideways with a shower of gravel.
The car slid perfectly into place at the base of the steps.
Then it went two feet further.
Dylan was already out of the car as it rammed the wooden steps with the manliest of crunching noises. The robust air brushed against his bare biceps, caressing Dylan Gunn's heroic form as he stepped up onto the hood of his car and took a running leap to reach Bobby's front door. The radio started the Peter Gunn theme against and Bobby arrived to investigate just as Dylan landed on the steps with a daring pose.
"Dammit, Dylan," Bobby growled. "What did you do to my porch?"
Dylan looked back, shaking his head with masculine regret. "I had to hurry, Bobby. The seals are breaking. I need more guns." He stepped forward, a hand pressed to his fearless heart. "I need more guns, Bobby."
"You don't need squat, idjit."
Bobby stomped back into the house and a resolute Dylan followed.
He'd only taken a few heroic steps toward his goal when there was a creaking noise below him.
With no hesitation, Dylan pulled out a sawn-off shotgun and smoothly fired two shots toward the noise. Smoke billowed as he raised the gun and blew across the barrel, his square jaw steady as he examined what remained of his target: a squeaky floorboard.
"Dammit, Dylan."
"Bobby, you can never be too safe." Dylan stowed his gun away, undaunted by the trial.
Bobby continued on, shaking his head. "I taught you that, ya great big idjit."