The Hitch-Hiker By Saumya

I was whispering along the bumpy roads of Madrid, in my new crimson red Bugatti Veyron, twin turbo, leather seats, TVs in the backseat, automatic windows with orange tint. This car had everything. Whenever I passed by a neighbourhood, everybody would stop and stare in awe as if a elephant was trampling over houses.

Suddenly, a black, dark, shadow hovered over me. CRACKOOM! A bolt of lightning skipped past me and exploded on the footpath. When the smoke cleared up, something not so ordinary was standing just behind it. A shaggy thin man, so thin he could’ve been mistaken for a stickman, had his hand in a position that it may have looked like he was giving you thumbs up, but he was waving it as though he saying goodbye.

I skidded to a halt beside him.  He had smart, cunning, dark brown eyes with a powerful moustache, he had his hands in canterburys as though he was touching something deadly or rich. Not to forget his golden necklace. He also had a leather jacket as though he was part of motorbike gang, but even with the gangster features, his mouth was unusually large.

I never left hitchhikers on the road. I hated how people just pretended that they don’t see you with their flash Lamborghini Gallardo and then the tiny rusted Nissan Bluebird stops just beside you and the driver says “Maybe just one more.”  

“Where to governor?”, I asked. “I’m not English, he replied with a Spaniard accent. He had said it in a very powerful convincing voice, so I stopped the joking. Barcelona by the way”. “Thats good, cause I’m going there too”, I replied. Five minutes later, he was in the car and we were skidding along the wet roads of Spain