I’m riding shotgun in Snoop’s pimped out convertible with Dub Magazine’s Herman Flores. It’s a yellow and purple Pontiac; Laker’s colors. The rims are solid gold spokes. The hydraulics give it about two inches of clearence. An unpredictable Miami rains begins. And the brakes give out.
We’re coasting downhill towards P2, aka News’ parking garage. A twenty two foot Rhyder truck pulls out to the right. A white rent-a-Tourus pulls out to the left. Herman says, “Hold on.” And I think, ‘Should I get out a Fred Flintstone us to a stop?’
Herman pounds on the break pedal. His career flashes before him. My career flashes before me. He drops the tree into reverse. We coast into the garage.
I pass him later stumbling through the Hyatt to the elevators. “Tomorrow,” he says, “We’ll have brakes.”
‘In Snoop’s ride,’ I think, ‘Yes.’
Everything else, though? All acceleration.