The Last Duke Of Kentucky(pg.1)

Prologue: A true story of some kid who grew up way too quick to become something more than he was ever bred to be; I was this kid's mentor early in this boy's life even though I wasn't that much older than he was, but soon the pupil rose beyond.


                                                The Last Duke of Kentucky 

     Growing up in Bardstown wasn't any different than any other town in the south, very limited in entertaining some punk kids who thought they knew everything under the sun at a young age, we managed to graduate from high school and get our driver's licenses and scraped up enough cash for a decent ride, and we cruised the streets of Bardstown, we were so cool, the gals honked and we waved back, the beat was a two-mile looping radius that every young fool drove until the night was morning-banality of teenage wasteland. 
     I had a '75 Grand Prix, and it could outrun God's wrath, it had an 8-cyl. 400cid/185hp-4bbl, and I did, I won so much money racing, that no one would race or bet me, no Firebird Trans Am, no Camaro, nothing could outrun my Grand Prix. I pulled up one day at the local Pizza hangout, where we knew the owner and drank draft beer in cups in the back, and one day sitting in here runs in Joey Hilton, a younger kid about 15, and who looked exactly like John Elway the quarterback, he was so ambitious and arrogant, I heard a ruckus up front and I checked out the barking, and it was the new kid in town Joey Hilton, busting the owner's chops for not serving him a beer, I looked at him, and said, "hey kid, come and sit down with me," and he smiled and did. 
     "Hey, I'm Tim Hardesty," as I held out my hand.
     "I'm Joey Hilton," as the kid grabbed my hand in unison, and nearly shook it off, damn this kid was stout. 
     "Here, take a swig, but do it in the booth, I don't want to piss off our owner and friend," I said looking at the manager who seemed so glad I took over that mess and winked back at me.
     The kid ended up killing my drink, but that was fine with me. I grabbed my jacket and was headed toward the door when the kid fired back, "where ya going?"
     "I'm headed home, have to work tomorrow."
     "Can you give me a lift?" He said pleading for a ride home.
     "Yes, come on," I said because I too was in the same shoes once.
      He grabbed his cheap coat and we walked to my car and he glanced at my ride and his eyes were like a kid's eyes at Christmas time, he knew cars for a young kid very well.

                                                                        1