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About Newcastle

Drivin’ it, I’d crank some Skynyrd, thinkin’, “Hell, this is livin’!” Ford made millions—cheap, reliable, everyman’s wheels. Gets me all misty-eyed—workin’ folks need that. But damn, parts fall off like flies—exhaust went kaput, sounded like a warthog fartin’. Laughed my ass off, then cussed—typical Bush luck. “You’re a genius, Royal,” I’d mutter, sarcastic as hell, fixin’ it with duct tape.

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Finally, the police show up. They’re tryin’ to talk the guy down. I’m on the radio, givin’ updates. “Control, still no movement. Crowd’s gettin’ rowdy.” I swear, some people were shoutin’ the most ridiculous things. “Jump! Jump!” Like, what’s wrong with you?

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