Reginald aims the long nose in the vague direction of the parking lot exit and hits the gas. And by hitting the gas, I mean, Reginald goes balls out pedal to the metal. The car jerks forward with a roar like a pissed-off cougar. The radio comes on, blasting loud hip-hop. Reginald sings along, slapping the steering wheel. I grab the door and hold on for dear life as we hurtle through the village.
