Shelly, Gertrude, and I were in what was clearly a very old car since all three of us were sitting comfortably in the front seat. Suddenly Shelly's brakes went out. She was driving down the center of the street -- only in movies and dreams would there be a center runaway car lane -- blowing her horn, cursing up a storm, and pounding on her useless brakes.
Just as a death-mobile drove straight toward me, Shelly managed to turn onto a slightly uphill side street. But what comes up certainly goes down, and the car is gaining crazy momentum.
Suddenly there's a nearly empty stripmall lot ahead and we circle around the cars to find a fairly steep upward climb. Finally, Shelly gets the car stopped.
Our reactions to this harrowing misadventure define us. Shelly wants to go inside to get some help. I'm hysterical and useless. Gertrude calls her husband (who strangely is her real-life boss) and starts screaming at him to pick up the cat from the vet.
BHAHAHAHHAHAHAAA.
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