Tag Archives: driving

Episode 1 of the Last Driver – Submitted for Editing

THE LAST DRIVER_finalebook

Hey 3.5 readers.

Your old pal, BQB here.

Good news.  I’ve gotten the first draft of the first episode of “The Last Driver” done to the point where I felt comfortable submitting it to my editor.  It’s a good feeling and that’s my overall dream, to continue building up my Amazon offerings.

“The Last Driver” takes place in a future where self-driving cars reign and human driven cars are a thing of the past.  Humans are no longer allowed to drive themselves anymore.

Of course, we need a cruel, dystopian, dictatorial government, the One World Order, who controls everything on a global scale.  When rebels kidnap 63 year old Frank Wylder’s granddaughter, the old man is left with no choice to put his pedal to the metal again, having been long retired from his past career of being a bank heist getaway driver.

I love the cover and give major kudos to 99 Designs.  You know, it’s funny, as early as the 1990s, when I was a youngster, I thought it would be possible to build a writing career and bypass the gatekeepers, but for the lack of ability to find good, quality artwork.  99 has really helped me with that and I’m sure there are other options out there as well.

So, look for it next year, 3.5.  My first piece of self-published fiction is on the way.

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The Last Driver – Episode 1 – Chapter 6

THE LAST DRIVER_finalebook1

March 14, 2050

After an hour of channel-surfing the state approved tele-web, my mind was numb. I’d seen countless hours of television in my youth. Some of it was good, some of it was bad, but all of it was better than the trash the One World Order spoon fed the masses. The irony is that I found that I found these shows humorous. Hollywood had thrown in with the Order and all the writers, producers, actors and actresses – they were putting on these shows with a straight face, never realizing that old timers like me were laughing at them. I doubt anyone under 35 realized these shows had become inadvertent parodies of everything the One World Order stood for.

I reached for Billy Allen’s dead grandpa’s ancient X-Tab. It was a bad idea to keep it out in the open. Each individual movie stored on it would most likely be considered a separate offense the state and yet, it had been so long since I’d seen anything remotely entertaining that I couldn’t help but watch another old movie. I turned the device on and was scrolling through the selections when there was a knock on the door.

“Shit.” As the knocks continued, I stood up and frantically looked around the room, hoping to find a good hiding spot for the ancient X-Tab. The knocks grew louder. A very mellow, almost high-sounding electronic voice spoke. “Citizen Wylder?”

The unapproved X-Tab was still in my hand and the only thing standing between me and a trip to a re-education center was the door. “Yes?”

“Civil Society Monitor Drones,” the voice said. “We’re here for your weekly inspection.”

“Oh,” I said.   I scanned the room. I pondered shoving the X-Tab under a doily on an end table, stuffing the device down my pants, and making a rub to the bathroom to see if it would fit down the toilet, but none of those options seemed viable.

“Didn’t we do that last week?” I asked.

“We do them every week,” the drone answered. “Hence, ‘weekly inspections.’”

“Oh right,” I said. “Sorry. I’m an old man. I forget these things.”

If the first best thing about being old is running out of fucks to give, the second best thing is being able to feign incompetence as an excuse. Sometimes I didn’t have to feign it, although this time I was.

“Are you alright, Citizen Wylder?” the drone inquired.

“I’m fine,” I said. “Just tidying up.”

“There’s no need,” the drone said. “We see many homes in various states of disarray.”

“Oh, you know me boys,” I said. “My mother always taught me to make your place spic and span if you’re having company over.”

I was out of time. I gave up, lifted up the middle couch cushion, stashed the ancient X-Pad, then dropped the cushion and sat down.

“We’re coming in,” the drone said.

I put my arm around Hannah, who was still asleep. “Oh no, I don’t want to put you out. I’ll be right there.”

The electronic locks on my front door clicked. The door swung open and in flew three drones. They were fairly standard in appearance. Four whirring rotor blades attached to a base, with a 360-degree camera that saw everything hanging down. As an interesting touch, there was a red light just above the camera that blinked whenever the contraption spoke.

“Good evening, Citizen Wylder,” the drone in the center said.

I sat up and grabbed my back, then winced. “Oh Jeeze Louise. Hello boys. I’m sorry I didn’t get to the door sooner but you know…my aching sacroiliac.”

“No worries,” the center drone said. The drones to the left and right broke off from the pack. The left drone headed for the kitchen. The right one made a beeline for the garage.”

The remaining drone buzzed closer to me. “I am Civil Society Monitor Drone Number 327B19, but to placate your humanist need to relate to anything with the power of speech, you may call me Randy 12.0.”

“Frank Wylder,” I said as I put out my hand. The drone looked at it. I looked at it. Neither of us were able to figure out what to do next, so I put the hand away.

“Right,” I said.

“You may refer to my colleagues as Jeff 7.6 and Carl 8.9,” Randy 12.0 said.

“Alright,” I replied. “What happened to Pete 11.1? I’m used to seeing him.”

“Grounded for repairs,” Randy 12.0 said. “An unfortunate encounter with an unruly citizen I’m afraid.”

“Wow,” I said. “That’s bullshit. Tell that little bucket of bolts I hope he gets better real soon.”

Randy 12.0 beeped. “A one-hundred credit fine will be deducted from your account.”

“For what?” I asked. “Wishing your buddy well?”

“Violation of the Anti-Inappropriate Speech Code,” Randy 12.0 said. “The Obscenity Eradication Act, in particular.”

“Oh,” I said. “Here we go.”

Ever so slowly, the drone flew about the living room, being sure to record video of everything. He then returned to face me. A red laser shot out of the center of the drone and painted my face with a grid.

“Confirming identity,” Randy 12.0 said. “Frank Wylder. Born 1987. Class 7 citizen.”

Ugh. There were ten classes assigned by the One World Order, with 1 being the best and 10 the worst. I was poor, so I was assigned to Class 7. This assignment meant I was only allowed to reside in a low level neighborhood, and the amount of money and possessions I could have was severely limited. If you think “7” doesn’t sound like such a bad number, consider that Class 8 is reserved for general, run-of-the-mill criminals. Class 9 is comprised entirely of pederasts and Class 10 includes, you guessed it, the vile Nationalist pigs. So in other words, my government looked upon me with just a little bit more favor than would be provided to criminals, perverts, and traitors.

Randy 12.0 stared at me and waited. Eventually, I figured out what he wanted me to say. “All hail the One World Order.”

“Long may it reign,” the drone said as it buzzed towards Hannah.

“My granddaughter,” I said. “I have an agreement with my ex-wife. She has custody. I get visitation.”

Custody agreements and other standing divorce arrangements from the um…time that I wasn’t allowed to talk about had been grandfathered in. The One World Order had forced many bizarre, draconian laws on its subjects, but even they knew they weren’t going to be able to force women to take back men that they’d given the old heave-ho to.

The drone painted Hannah’s sleepy face with a red laser grid.   “Scanning…Hannah Wylder. Born 2037. Age 13. Yes, your custody documents are on file and are in order.”

Randy 12.0 took another swing around the room. “How are you this evening, Citizen Wylder?”

“I’m hanging in there,” I said.

“Been having any problems?” Randy 12.0 asked.

“Just old age,” I said. “Losing hair in the places I want to keep it. Growing it in places I don’t want it. Don’t even get me started on my bowel movements. They haven’t been regular in ages.”

“Too much information, Citizen Wylder,” the drone said. “Have you observed any suspicious behavior amongst your neighbors?”

“Nope,” I said. “The Martinezes are fine people. A real credit to the order, if you ask me.”

“Has there been an issue with your Happy Order Month lawn signs?” Randy 12.0 asked.

“Excuse me?”

“Citizen Martinez indicated to me that he has placed several signs on your lawn to assist you in putting your pride in the One World Order on full display,” Randy 12.0 said. “But they keep disappearing.”

“Right,” I said. “Yeah, you know, someone keeps swiping them…but Martinez, he’s a good egg.”

“A good what?” Randy 12.0 asked.

“He’s a good egg,” I said. “He keeps putting signs on my lawn because, you know, I’m old, I can’t get out to get new ones every time they go missing.”

“Understood,” Randy 12.0 said. “Why would you refer to your neighbor as a protein deposit dispensed from a chicken’s hindquarters?”

I shook my head. “Its an expression. It…never mind.”

“So no suspicious activity observed amongst your neighbors then?” Randy 12.0 said.

I smirked. “No…well.”

Randy 12.0 spun around and faced me. “What?”

I waved my hand, attempting to shoo the drone away. “No, it’s nothing.”

“Out with it, Citizen Wylder,” the drone said. “Any piece of information you have, no matter how insignificant it may seem, may prove to be of vital importance to the One World Order.”

“Well, when you put it that way…” I looked around the room, then leaned forward, towards the drone. “Look, you didn’t hear this from me, but Mrs. Howard, that old bitch across the street, have you seen the size of her lately? She has got to be sneaking extra rations. I’d work her over real good if I were you.”

Randy 12.0 beeped. “You have been fined one hundred credits.”

I spread my arms out. “For what?”

“Another obscenity violation,” Randy 12.0 said.

I was down two hundred credits now, and I needed that money. I grew angry, pissed even. I lost it and started saying things I knew was just going to displease my uninvited guest.

“Come on,” I said. “The U.S. Constitution guarantees me the Freedom of Speech.”

“The One World Order maintains that document never existed, nor would it be considered valid if it ever did, which it did not,” Randy 12.0 said. “And you have been fined another one hundred credits.”

“For?” I asked.

“Violation of the Anti-Nationalist Speech Act,” Randy 12.0 said. Citizens are not allowed to make claims that any government ever existed other than the One World Order.”

I took a deep breath and found my composure. Accusations of harboring Nationalist tendencies were definitely something I didn’t need. “I’m sorry…I’m old…I get confused.”

“Understandable, given your advanced age,” Randy 12.0 said. “Citizen Wylder, are you aware that at anytime, you may voluntarily check yourself into one of the Order’s many fine senior citizen facilities. There are nursing homes for the infirm, though it would appear in your position, a mere assisted living center would be more suitable.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Pete reminded me every time. Sorry, if it’s all the same, I’d like to kick back around here. I’d miss my granddaughter too much plus I don’t want to be a burden.”

“You already are a burden,” Randy 12.0 said. “My records indicate you secured disability leave from your assigned position as a janitor due to depression related issues?”

“Yup,” I said. “It was a great job. Really, I loved cleaning toilets but you know, I got so sad.”

“Do the depression issues persist?” Randy 12.0 asked.

“All the time,” I said. “I don’t know how it happened but I am one morose son of a…”

Randy 12.0 hovered in front of me, almost as though he was waiting to beep. I avoided the fine. “…son of a something or other…shame really, I don’t I’ll ever be able to muster up the mental capacity to scrub a toilet ever again.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Citizen Wylder,” Randy 12.0 said. “I’m downloading some brochures about the Order’s many fine senior citizen facilities to your tele-web.”

“No need,” I said. “I’m not a big reader.”

“Do start thinking about the impending change,” Randy 12.0 said. “Retirement to a senior citizen facility is mandatory upon reaching the age of 65. That’s not far away for you.”

“Pete reminded me of that all the time too,” I said.

“Senior citizen facilities are not that bad, Citizen Wylder,” Randy 12.0 said. “There’s tennis, racquet ball, arts and crafts, aerobics, swimming, talent shows…”

“Mind control…”

Randy 12.0’s red light blinked. “The Order prefers to refer to that as ‘mind management.’”

“Gotcha,” I said.

Randy 12.0 made another circular pass around the room. “Citizen Wylder, do you have any contraband to declare?”

My mind instantly went to the ancient X-Tab, still underneath the cushion I was sitting on. “Pardon?”

“Contraband,” the drone said. “Are you in possession of any illegal items?”

“No,” I said. “Of course not.”

The drone buzzed toward me in a straight line and hovered a mere six inches from my face. “Are you sure?”


“But,” the drone said. “Are you sure that you’re sure?”

I pondered the question. “Sir, this is a house dedicated to the preservation of the One World Order and all of its ways. I don’t appreciate your insinuation.”

Randy 12.0 backed up another six inches. “I insinuated nothing, Citizen Wylder. I merely wish to make you understand that penalties for contraband violations are often less severe when they are confessed to before the illegal item is found.”

I remained silent.

“Do you understand, Citizen Wylder?” Randy 12.0 asked.

“I do,” I said. “I’m just waiting for you to laugh maniacally like a comic book super villain.”

“I do not understand,” Randy 12.0 said.

“That’s ok, sport,” I said. “Happens to the best of us.”

“Now that I have ensured you understand the consequences of providing a false answer, I’ll have you answer the question again,” Randy 12.0 said.

“Holy shit,” I said. “Did someone stick a sadist chip up your ass?”

Randy 12.0 beeped. “An additional two hundred credit fine.”

“That was only one violation,” I said.

“Two violations,” Randy 12.0 said.

“But I used both obscenities in the same sentence,” I protested.

“That doesn’t matter,” Randy 12.0 said. “Each obscenity is a separate violation.”

“Huh,” I said. “You learn something new everyday.”

“Answer the question please.”

I rolled my eyes and held up the palm of my hand. “Look, you airborne clunker, I swear on my mother’s eternal soul that I do not have any illegal stuff in this house, OK?”

Randy 12.0 beeped.

“Oh come on,” I said. “What now?”

“Processing…processing…yes…that was close to a violation, but I have the power to let you off with a warning.”

I was getting tired. I rubbed my hand over my face. “Dare I ask?”

“Violation of the Religion Eradication Act,” Randy 12.0 said. “You stated your deceased mother has an eternal soul but as far as the One World Order is concerned, she is no more than a spent carcass that in all likelihood as disintegrated into dust by now.”

I sat back on the couch. “Way to liven up the mood, Randy 12.0”

“A fine was possible, but I took into account the intent of the infraction, namely, your backward attempt to assure me you are not in any possession of contraband,” Randy 12.0 said. “Since you were not actively attempting to preach outdated and illegal religious dogma, I am able to wave the violation.”

“Well,” I said. “’Aint that some shit.”

Randy 12.0 beeped. “A one hundred dollar fine. I must warn you that all speech code violations are kept track of and further infractions may lead to time in a re-education center.”

Jeff 7.6 and Carl 8.9 flew into the living room.

“Citizen Wylder,” Jeff 7.6 said.

“That’s my name,” I said. “Don’t wear it out.”

“Are you aware that there are 9 cans of beer in your fridge?” Jeff 7.6 inquired.

“Oh,” I said. “Yeah, well you see, my granddaughter’s been visiting me so that’s put me in a happier mood. I haven’t been feeling the need to souse myself up as much lately.”

“You are only allowed to have six beers in your fridge at any time,” Jeff 7.6 said.

“No,” I replied. “I thought I could only buy six beers a week.”

“That’s correct,” Jeff 7.6 said.

“And I can only drink six beers a week,” I said.

“Correct,” Jeff 7.6 said.

“But if I don’t drink them I get to keep them, don’t I?” I asked.

“No,” Jeff 7.6 said. “Because then we have no assurances that you won’t drink 9 beers in a week.”

“Ugh,” I said. “So you’re punishing me for drinking less?”

“Do not be concerned,” Jeff 7.6 said. “I have discretionary authority here. Technically, I do have the power to issue a fine. However, I will notify the contraband agent to stop by your home tomorrow to pick up the three excess beers.”

“You’re a real soft touch, Jeff 7.6,” I said.

“I don’t understand that statement,” Jeff 7.6 said.

“Can I just drink the extra three beers tonight?” I asked.

“No,” Jeff 7.6 said.

“Why not?” I inquired.

“Then we would have no assurances that you would not drink the remaining six beers and as we have established…”

“I’m only allowed six beers a week.”


“Huh,” I said. “Well, tell me this, Jeff Old Boy, what happens if I’m not home when the contraband agent stops by tomorrow?”

“He’ll let himself in.”

“Of course he will,” I said.   “What happens if I drink the three excess beers?”

“If you drink any amount of beer tonight,” Jeff 7.6 said. “Then there had better be at least three excess beers in your fridge for confiscation. At that point, it will be a safe determination that you drank only your six beer limit this week, but then you will be required to refrain from any further beer consumption until the following week.”

“Wow,” I said. “You little guys do a bang up job keeping track of everyone’s comings and goings. A real great job. You’re all aces in my book.”

Jeff 7.6 beeped. “One hundred credit fine.”

“What now?” I asked.

“Violation of the Anti-Gambling Related Speech Act.”

I raised my pointer finger. “Wait. I’d like to appeal that.”

“On what grounds?” Jeff 7.6 asked.

“I wasn’t talking about ‘aces’ as in the ‘ace’ card,” I said. “I was just paying you a compliment.”

“I detected sarcasm,” Jeff 7.6 said.

I huffed and puffed. “Well, sir, your sarcasm meter is on the fritz because I was distinctly just giving credit where credit is due. You’re going to fine a guy for telling you that you did a good job?”

“If you wish to appeal this fine,” Jeff 7.6 said. “You have thirty days to file an appeal form with the Regional Board of Fine Adjudicators. Once you file, your appearance at 7 hearings over the course of the next 14 years will be mandatory and the board will have until the year 2084 to render a final decision.”

“Yikes,” I said. “Oh well. I think my bum ticker will adjudicate that decision before the board does so, OK Jeffy Boy. You win. Just put it on my bill.”

Carl 8.9 hovered closer. “Citizen Wylder.”

“He’s not at home right now,” I said. “Care to leave a message?”

Carl 8.9 faced his clinking colleagues. A serious of beeps were exchanged. Carl 8.9 faced me again. “We have determined that was an attempt at humor.”

“Good for you,” I said.

“Because obviously you are here,” Carl 8.9 said.

“There are no flies on you,” I said.

“No there are not,” Carl 8.9 said.

“How can I help you, Carl?” I asked.

“Regarding the human driven automobile in your garage, I do not have an antique car collector’s permit for you on file.”

I reached into my pocket. As I did so, all three drones faced me. A mini-chain gun dropped out of the bases of each contraption.

“What are you doing?” Carl 8.9 asked.

I stopped moving. “I’m getting my permit.”

“You have a hard copy?” Carl 8.9 asked.

“Yes,” I said. “I’ll show it to you, if we’re cool.”

“The temperature is not the issue,” Carl 8.9 said.

I sighed. “You tell me. Am I allowed to get it?”

“Affirmative,” Carl 8.9 said. “But slowly.”

Slowly, just as commanded, I pulled a plastic card out of my pocket and held it up. Carl 8.9 shot a laser at it and scanned it.

“This checks out,” Carl 8.9 said. “However, be advised that the plastic card permitting system has been deemed antiquated by the One World Order. All citizens with permits are required to register them digitally by the end of the year. You should have received a notice about that on the tele-web.”

“I have no idea how to use that thing,” I said. “I’m an old man.”

“I will send you a copy of the notice, Carl 8.9 said.

“Of course you will,” I said. “Well boys, this has been fun, but if there isn’t anything else…”

Randy 12.0 flew to the center of the room. “One scan of this room and we’ll be on our way.

My heart sunk. I began to wonder if I shouldn’t just pull out the X-Tab and declare it. Nope. I decided to keep quiet.

A red laser shot out of Randy 12.0. He used it to paint the top of the room with a grid. The number of individual squares grew and grew, slowly working their way downward. The squares reached my waist when Randy 12.0 beeped.

I coughed to clear my throat. “Something wrong?”

Randy 12.0 turned to Carl 8.9. “A major contraband find across the street. CSMD Team A72 is requesting backup.”

“I knew it!” I said. “I knew that old broad was up to no good!”

The grid shut off. Without so much as a goodbye, the three flying piles of junk flew out my front door. I sighed a breath of relief.

I stepped out to my front porch to watch a disturbing scene unfold. I had no love for Mrs. Howard. She spent most of her days trying to find some infraction to turn me into the Order for. Still, to see that old gal hogtied on the front lawn while Honor Guardsmen kicked down her front door…it just didn’t seem right.

“George Washington would be rolling over in his grave,” I said.

Way, way across the street, Randy 12.0 stopped and turned around. His voice was feint, but I was able to make it out. “One hundred dollar fine.”

“You could hear that all the way over there?!” I shouted.

“Yes,” the drone replied.

I stepped into my living room and slammed the front door behind me. “Son of a…”


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The Last Driver – Episode 1 – Summary

THE LAST DRIVER_finalebook1

In a world where self-driving cars are the norm, the last man to retain his skill behind the wheel has been called upon to ride again.
The year is 2050. Sixty-three year old Frank Wylder is coming to terms with a felling that all seniors eventually experience, namely the realization that the world has passed him by. Everything he knew in his youth is gone and all that has replaced it doesn’t appear to be going anywhere.
The rub? This isn’t just any ordinary late life crisis. The governments of every last nation on Earth have succumbed to the brutally efficient bureaucracy dubbed, “The One World Order.” A cunning dictatorship that makes George Orwell’s worst nightmares look like mere child’s play, the Order has achieved the unthinkable – the eradication of free will. People no longer decide what they want to do with their lives. Instead, the Order controls every last detail of an individual’s existence, from the job he holds, to the speech he’s allowed to use, the food he eats, even the person he marries. Big Brother isn’t just watching anymore. He’s getting involved.
In fact, the Order has been running people’s lives for so long that one the elderly remember what the world was like when a man had a say about what he did and didn’t do. Frank recalls his choices – a youth spent as a hotshot getaway driver for an organized crime family’s heist ring, followed by a middle age spent as a professional chauffeur (and occasional problem solver) for Hollywood’s most glamorous (and utterly scandalous) movie stars.
Those glory days are long gone now. As Frank’s health issues mount, he feels decrepitude closing in. He finds some solace in maintaining “Veronica” – his classic muscle car, a cherry red 1969 American Made Sidewinder that he once used to transport many a villain from a bank job to a safe house in no time flat. Meanwhile, his thirteen-year old granddaughter, Hannah, gives Frank a reason to go on, though her constant questions about how things used to be on Earth make Frank realize this is a world he just doesn’t belong in anymore.
Naturally, the One World Order is not without an enemy. The band of rebels known as the Nationalist Front seeks to annihilate the worldwide regime and return power back to individual countries. The methods of this group are severe, so terrifying in nature that at times, spectators are left to wonder whether the ones challenging power are any better than those currently holding it.
One such spectator is Frank, who’d prefer to be left alone to drink the six and only six beers that the Order will allow a Class 7 citizen like him to pour down his gullet. Sure, he’ll glance at the coverage of the ongoing fracas on the state approved tele-web, but he has no interest in any cause other than self (and granddaughter) preservation. He’s content to stay out of the fray and on the sidelines. After all, staying put at home is the best way to avoid incurring a heft fine from the Order’s ever present, absurdly nosey Civil Society Monitor Drones.
Alas, when the Nationalist Front learns that Frank was once a badass with his foot on the gas, the old man is offered a deal he can’t refuse – be the wheelman on a series of operations designed to strike at the heart of the One World Order’s ability to rule effectively.
Technology is central to the lives of the masses and the One World Order controls all of it. From X-Pads that only show state approved content, to search engines that have wiped out any trace of world history, the Order is able to keep tabs on its billions of charges 24/7.
Self-Driving cars, once thought to be the saving grace of the modern commuter, are exploited by the global dictatorship. Sure, these marvels of engineering have cut down on travel times, allowed people to sleep and work on their way to their places of business, and have dropped the worldwide traffic accident rate to zero. However, the Order is able to pursue its surveillance objectives by tracking where people are going and who they are seeing, while maintaining the ultimate nanny state. That’s right. Each self-driving car is embedded with an artificial intelligence that will not, under any circumstances, allow the occupant one of these vehicles to stop for a greasy drive-thru hamburger if his BMI is not at optimal levels. Smoking, drinking, cheating on a spouse, nights of depraved debauchery – all things of the past as cars are now considered to be mobile adult babysitting machines instead of the transportation devices they once were.
Is free will all it’s cracked up to be? Is it a God given right that inspires man to dream big and soar to new heights, or is it an illusion, a source of a burning yet destructive desire to kick others down in a mad scramble to fight over precious, limited resources? The Nationalists have chosen option A, the Globalists argue for option B. Frank doesn’t care. He just wants his granddaughter back.
For a regime that assumed it had thought of everything, the insertion of Frank into the mayhem is a variable that was never anticipated. Self-driving cars are efficient – perhaps too efficient. They’re programmed to reach their assigned destinations in a prompt manner at a reasonable rate of speed. They follow all traffic laws, patiently yield to pedestrians, and avoid collisions.
In short, these automated four-wheel wonders are no match for an old drunk with a lead foot and nothing left to loose. Readers will delight as Frank zooms, vrooms, crashes and bashes his way to victory – if such a premise even exists. After all, as bad as life is under the One World Order, will the world be any better if it is carved back up into petty, constantly bickering nations again?
Bookshelf Q. Battler, a world renowned poindexter, an epic nerdventurer, a reviewer of pop cultural happenings and a champion yeti fighter is the geek behind this gearhead fest. Dubbing “The Last Driver” as the demon spawn produced from a hot night of steamy lovemaking between the “Fast and Furious” franchise and George Orwell’s 1984, BQB is hard at work on this ongoing serial. At this time, the world’s greatest dweeb can only promise that he will do everything within his power to release a new episode every six months. Readers who want their fix sooner are asked to send constructive (or destructive but only if its funny) criticism BQB’s way. His Twitter handle is @bookshelfbattle and he can be found on Facebook with @bookshelfqbattler. Don’t forget to check out bookshelfbattle.com for updates on the future of “The Last Driver’s” epic first season.


Frank used to be better than this. In the earlier half of the Twenty-First Century, he was a bad ass baller who knew an adrenaline rush that could only be achieved during a high speed chase with a backseat full of bank robbers and a squadron of cop cars on his tail. Veronica, his beloved classic muscle car, never failed to perform, while his fixer, Bernie, never hesitated to exterminate loose ends with extreme prejudice.
But that time is gone and his good mood is over, not just as a result of his advanced age but also because the One World Order, in its efforts to regulate success, has determined that the lower classes should never know too much joy.
Frank is content to wallow away his golden years on the couch, watching state approved television and drinking the six and only six beers per week the global dictatorship will allow him to have until his old pal Bernie pesters him into taking Veronica on one last joyride. What starts with a vow to not take Veronica more than a mile away from home turns into a drunken high speed chase involving very confused self-driving cop cars and a team of flamethrower wielding shock troops with itchy trigger fingers.
Region A Traffic Enforcer Vaughn, one of the Order’s most ambitious officers, is not amused by Frank’s antics. Meanwhile, a frenemy from Frank’s past takes notice of the old man’s past, while the National Front angles to take charge of Frank’s limited future. Ultimately, the safety of Frank’s granddaughter, Hannah, hangs in the balance.
Will Frank give up and lie down on the couch and drink more beer? Will he don his leather jacket and mirrored shades for another ride? Will he ever punch one of those pesky, tattle tale drones out of the air? Answers to all these questions and more await BQB’s precious readers in the first episode of “The Last Driver.”

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Zomcation – Chapter 8


Abby looked at the clock in her mini-van. 6:19 A.M.

“He’s not coming,” Abby said.

“I’m telling you,” Dylan said. “He said he is. Just give him his five minutes.”

Mack emerged from the house in a pair of jeans, a black T-shirt, and a pair of sunglasses with a duffel bag slung over his arm.

“Dylan,” Abby said as her brother approached. “How did you pull this off?”

“I just know how to talk to people,” Dylan said.

Abby popped the hatch and Mack stowed his duffel in the back, then walked around to the driver’s side.


“Shall we give the girl soldier a shot at the wheel?” Mack asked.

“It’s your funeral,” Abby said as she snuck through the pass-through to the back seat next to Dylan.

A giddy Paige moved over to the driver’s side as Mack took the passenger’s seat.

Once all doors were closed, Mack made some announcements.

“Family,” Mack said. “Be advised I am not attending this trip out of a desire for fun, recreation or quote unquote ‘having a good time.’”

“Whatever you need to say, Mack,” Abby said.

“I am attending as the world is a dangerous place and the idea of allowing people I am related to venture off unescorted is an untenable situation in my estimation,” Mack said.

“You love cartoon wombats,” Abby snickered.

“I’ll ignore that,” Mack said. “People, this is the point of no return. Has everyone gone to the bathroom?”

“Sir, yes sir,” replied Mack’s family.

“Good,” Mack said. “Because a premature stop would cause an unnecessary delay. Does everyone have all required medications and assorted items the failure of which to pack would bring our excursion to a grinding halt?”

“Sir, yes sir,” the family replied.

“Excellent,” Mack said as he opened up his wallet. “Boy soldier!”

“Sir?” Dylan asked.

Mack passed the boy a twenty dollar bill.

“You have been appointed quarter master of this operation, the man in charge of procuring all necessary goods and materials,” Mack said. “At our first stop, you will procure me a Red Bull and a bag of Funions. Use any remaining currency to procure snacks and drinks for yourself and fellow soldiers. Have I made myself clear?”

“Sir, yes sir,” Dylan sad.

“Sister soldier!” Mack said.

“Will you stop with the ‘soldier’ bit?” Abby asked.

“Now is not the time to descend into chaos, Abby,” Mack said. “You have been appointed as navigator. Keep an eye on your cell phone GPS and make sure we’re headed to our destination using the best routes available.”

“It’s got a GPS right there,” Abby said as she pointed to the monitor at the front of the vehicle. “See?”

“Oh,” Mack said. “Then take a much deserved nap as a reward for all your labors and be rested for when your driving shift comes.”

“Don’t mind if I do,” Abby said as she leaned back.

“Girl soldier!”

“Sir?” Paige asked.

“In my career, I have received the requisite training to drive tractor trailer trucks, Humvees, tanks and also to pilot helicopters and all manner of aircraft, light and heavy,” Mack said. “You are now under my command and will be expected to follow my instructions to the letter or be relieved of duty. Have I made myself clear?”

“Sir, yes sir,” Paige said.

“Good,” Mack said. “Take us out.”

Paige immediately put the car in reverse and took her foot off the brake.

“Boom!” Mack shouted.

“What?” Paige asked as she braked.

“You’ve failed to put on your seatbelt,” Mack said. “Had there been a collision, your carcass would have flown through the windshield only to flop around like a fish gasping for air on the hood.”

“Do we need to be that graphic, Mack?” Abby asked.

“The more graphic I am today the less likely she’ll experience such a scenario in the future,” Mack said. “Resume driving, girl soldier.”

Paige started to back out again.

“Boom!” Mack shouted.

“What?!” a frazzled Paige asked.

“You’ve failed to adjust your mirrors,” Mack said.

“I did,” Paige snapped.

“Lies,” Mack replied. “Your mother is taller than you are and has her mirrors set to her liking. You are shorter and if you are unable to see out of your mirrors then it is only a matter of time before you careen this vehicle into another transport and set us all ablaze in an inferno that will seal our doom.”

Paige adjusted her mirrors. “Oh. That is better.”

“Proceed,” Mack said.

Paige did and it wasn’t long before Mack shouted another “Boom!”

“OMG!” Paige shouted as she hit the brake. “What now?”

“You failed to check if anyone was coming on the roadway behind you,” Mack said. “You lucked out this time but had there been a transport, you surely would have killed all of us, all of them, or some combination of us and them. Best case scenario in that situation is you end up badly mangled, recover after years of surgeries and physical therapy, then are forced to live out the rest of your days with the horrendous, agonizing guilt that comes with knowing that your screwup got your family and other innocents killed.”

Paige nodded, checked her mirrors, checked her blindspots, then brought the car out into the road.

“This is going to be a long trip,” Dylan said.

“Mack,” Abby said. “You know she’s never done any highway driving before.”

“Only way to learn is to do it,” Mack replied. “No one taught me how to drive a truck at a hundred miles an hour down a runway as the enemy pilot of an attack helicopter mercilessly deployed a barrage of gunfire and missiles my way. You learn or you die. It’s that simple.”

Paige and Dylan’s eyes lighted up.

“Did that really happen?” Dylan asked.

“That’s classified,” Mack replied.

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