This was a getaway bucket with style, maybe a G-ride, a gangster ride, stolen out of a driveway in Beverly Hills, and behind the wheel sat the shooter's ace kool, his backup homey, ready to shave the THE FACE 163.

Crouchy, don't go any further until I see the boss.

Then she hugged the kiddie clost to her, standing straight and queenly, her eyes ablaze, her lips moist, and red, and scornful.

I got stuffed by that guy on the supermoto going into that turn, almost causing us to crash.