The red car screams through the frost-bitten streets, A chariot for the damned, fueled by panic and bad ideas. She yells with the fury of someone who’s just seen God blink, A banshee in the driver’s seat, mouth open wide like a shotgun blast. Beside her, he’s grinning— A madman with nowhere to hide, Eyes wired to the edge of reason. The steering wheel trembles in his grip, The road a blur of salt, snow, and forgotten exits. Outside, the world cracks and warps, Billboards bleed, trees vanish into static. The windshield fractures reality into oil-slick pieces, Each shard reflecting the same truth: They’re not coming back. It’s a joyride to oblivion, Two souls laughing at the joke they can’t remember. The car doesn’t slow, And neither do they— Not until the horizon spits them out.