You need a spare tyre if you own a vehicle. Getting caught out without a spare tyre can be a cumbersome and fruitless experience.
The needless drama unfolded on a regular Saturday for the Sussexes. Their fleet of gas guzzling SUVs were on the 405 somewhere deep in the bowels of Los Angeles. The 405 is an awful, smelly, polluted car park where cars and massive trucks creep along for miles bumper to bumper at two miles an hour at the most. Road rage is a common occurrence, something about the hopeless nature of being stuck on a road between off-ramps makes motorists lose their sanity. Some resort to firearms to let off steam. Amongst the maelstrom of cars spewing out their toxic emissions on the go-slow, letting off a few rounds into other vehicles in utter frustration somehow soothes the souls of these tormented individuals enslaved to their shiny metal Lords of Pollution. You might hear a few cracks or gentle thuds, maybe your rear windscreen shatters suddenly, or alternatively you or a passenger may absorb a few bullets. Shit happens in the blink of an eye as the rows and rows of cars amble forwards slowly. When moving a few metres is a mission celebrated by a couple of whoops, having a bullet pass through one of your kidneys only to lodge itself in your dashboard is a welcome relief. Yet, to have one of your tyres suddenly release all its air in deflatory alarm, is quite disconcerting. You rummage around in the boot, eventually realising that there is no spare tyre, in fact you realise there never was a spare fucking tyre in your boot. That kind of thing happened to Harry. This time, Harry just saw red. Unhinged, deranged and demented, the jumbled schizoid thoughts entered his head and ordered him to shoot. Where was his team of therapists now? Like a wild eyed, sweating Samoan lawyer on Adrenochrome, Harry’s hallucinations took a sinister grip over him. Self-control and clear thought had gone a long time ago, the serotonin receptors in his brain destroyed by years of cocaine abuse and snorting tequila shots up his nasal passage in Mahiki. With his vision blurred, Harry suddenly saw Camilla laughing at him in a Volvo. Immediately, he grabbed his security officer’s revolver and wound down the window, letting off a few rounds. Meghan, shocked, started yelling in abject fear. This man she controlled and brainwashed had suddenly broken free from her hypnotic spell and gone motherfuckin’ stir-crazy. Cocaine is a helluva drug, Rick James once said, and now here was Harry blasting away at car tyres, windshields, anything that was there. Gun in hand, Harry suddenly spied a man in a Mercedes wearing a turban. Immediately, his frazzled mind transported him to the dusty, hot hell of Camp Bastion. It’s the Taliban! I must exterminate with extreme prejudice. Good thing, without an automatic Apache helicopter targeting system, Harry is a useless shot. Multiple rounds from Harry’s gun ricochet off the car’s bumper, then zoom into the air. Meghan summarily projectile vomits onto the protection officer scrambling to get his fucking gun back. Harry then sees the face of William in a Mustang, and it’s laughing at him. Blam! Blam! I am the real king, Harry shouts wildly, letting off the final few shots in the general direction of the vehicle. As the flashing blue lights engulf the area, Harry suddenly snaps momentarily out of his psychosis. It’s a good thing he’s also the Duke of Sussex and immune from prosecution. Oh shit, he then realises where he is — America.
Story continues next week.