Pedal to the Floor.  One hand on the wheel the other on a bottle of Tequila.  I'm shooting straight down to Mexico where liquor is cheap and the woman are plentiful.  My 1981 brown AMC Eagle convertible is going to be full throttle, top down, as the state troopers follow me full speed down the highway and right to the border.  Their shooting at me now and I have to leave the main road and turn onto the sandy desert but Mexico welcomes me.  Their border patrol guard is waving a checkered flag screaming, "faster, senor," as I blow across his border.  I slam on my brakes and spin my car around sideways.  As the dust that whipped around my car settles I stare-down the state police.  After a minute stand-off I give them the middle finger and then sip my tequila.  The Mexican guard drops his glasses an inch and gives me a nod in respect.  He respects my intensity.  Now the sun is just an orange ball resting on the horizon.  Unlike the sun I don't need a rest.  I drive towards it, wind whipping through my hair, as the theme from "Top Gun" gently plays on my radio.  The night is young.