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Oct 10

Written by: Bruce A. Sarte
Monday, October 10, 2011 2:18 PM  RssIcon

Here is a SNEAK PEAK from Philadelphia Story coming January 2012!!


The wind whipped around my head like a cyclone on steroids.  Rain pounding down with such ferocity it stung like tiny needles each time it struck my skin.  Every few minutes I could feel it pool on my forehead just above my eyebrows before it spilled over into my eyes.  Every drop of water made the cut on the side of my face burn like someone was rubbing salt into it. 

Under normal circumstances for most people this would merely be an annoyance that would cause them to, perhaps, reach over and grab a towel.   Not me.  Not tonight.  On this pitch black, stormy night I was pushing the 427 in my cherry red 1969 Camaro Convertible hard.  I had my baby hitting seventy-five miles per hour catapulting down Columbus Boulevard… with the top down.

I’m sure this immediately raises several questions in your mind.   Where am I going?  Why am I going there so fast?  And why on God’s green earth is my top down in the pouring rain? All those are great questions and I have answers to all of them.  A few of which I’ll actually share.  Unfortunately this weather coupled with the difficulty I was having with the convertible top and other factors created a real need for a shot of liquid resolve.  I reached over without looking and grabbed the bottle of Gentlemen Jack from the passenger seat.  I deftly unscrewed the cap with one hand and pushed the cold glass to my lips.  The amber liquid shot into my mouth like quicksilver and burned down the back of my throat like molten lava.  Out of the corner or my eye I saw the light traffic light flip from yellow to red as I shot past the waterfront museum.  Yea, I saw it… I just don’t care.  I’ve got to get to the pier… I’ve got to get to the girl.  I clumsily thumbed the top back on the bottle and tossed it into the seat just before I spun the wheel hard to the left.  The back end of the car got a little loose but I feathered the clutch and hit the gas just in time for the rear to regain traction on the wet pavement.  The engine roared as it passed the torque on through the driveshaft and gave the wheels the power they needed to catapult me into the parking lot of Pier 51. 

The building was just ahead and all I could think of were the words she said to me.  The tone of her voice begging me to go save her little girl.

“Lance, please…” she sniffled her pain back inside herself, “please save Jenny.  I’ve got no one else to turn to.”  I felt her suffering through the phone in her throaty, dry voice.

“Lin, tell me what’s going on.  I can help you!” I urged her.

“Lance, there’s nothing you can do for me – the