Cautiously and carefully he crept. It was critical he not be seen. His mark, a car -- a carefully crafted and curated masterpiece of motored magic -- sat waiting, longing for his touch. This is the part he loved: the time before the grand exit, when anything seemed possible.
Further firing his excitement was a crowded celebration above. The chatter of the crowd reached down the hills, through the trees, over the grass, and meet his ears with titillation. The chatter was loud and proud, but meaningless. Large groups congregated and exaggerated. It was like watching group masterbation, but without any nervous hesitation. They engaged their own vanity and let loose stinging statement shaped to shear and decisively destroy other egos. These are the people for whom he harboured hate.
The lock came easily -- the click of the bolt was orgasmic. Again he crept, this time around the door and into the seat. It welcomed him into its embrace, pulling him gracefully into place. He savoured the moment. Perhaps he could keep it, he wondered... briefly. But the reality of his humble and hopeless life hummed in is his head. This was not to be.
He pushed a button and the engine came to life. It purred passionately as the exhaust poured sensually over everything in its reach. He reveled in the moment, paralyzed with pleasure. Then he snapped to, depressed the clutch, shifted down, pressed the gas, and drove off swiftly into the night. With no hesitation, quickly towards his final destination.