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Subculture fuck - Taisto Vähäjärki, 2002

- Hey Goat, where the fuck we going? Daniele asked, her arm hanging out on the side of the red Cadillac convertible speeding down the highway, a joint in her hand, protected by her fingers.

Goat was the man driving. He looked briefly to the passenger side at Daniele, the lights on the road reflecting on his faux-eighties shades.

- It's a party, he answered.

- Fuck you, I know that, Daniele snapped back, bringing the joint to her lips, glossed black. Her medium-length straight black hair went wild in the wind.

- Hey, gimme some of that joint, Goat said and Daniele passed the remains. It's like this sport guy from the college my brother's going to. He's having a party. My bro's going, and I thought we should go too.

- Fuck you Goat, what the fuck are you thinking? I mean, fuck sports, Daniele stated, turning sideways to look at Goat. His thin face was expressionless, his large eyes hidden by the shades. He sprawled over the driver's side, tall, lean, lanky and menacing, driving with lazy ...

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