Sam squinted at his first-class wristwatch, and the tick had struck 12 minutes past midnight. Then he rubbed his fingers on the mac-rims of his Gold  Six. He grabbed the coffee-brown bottle, twisted it, and turned towards the driver’s seat. 

“Don’t, you’re tanked-up!” shouted his buddies. The moneyed guy stuck out his tongue and revved the car. Then he spinned the wheels and made several U-turns, stirring thunderous handclapping from girls in miniskirts. Seconds later, the Golf Six swerved into Hosea Kutako Drive. 

Instead of applying the brakes at the U-sharp turn next to the Pioneerspark’s Cemetery, he hard-pressed the accelerator. The Golf smashed the steel barricades, and landed on a grave of a boxing legend. 

The vrooming car threw Sam out, and he landed on the soft sandy grave. First to arrive at the wreckage was the blue-capped man. The police spotted a glass of foamy beer in Sam’s fists. The detectives quizzed him as to why the ice-cold glass didn’t break. They peeled off their caps, and blinked at the bubbly beer. Soon, Sam mined an iPhone and took a selfie with the gravestones in the backdrop. A yellow-and-blue light van took Sam to hospital. 

By now, the grave-ramming car had drained the alcohol from his body. However, the smell of beer forced the medical students in knee-shy skirts to pinch their pencil-thin noses. The name of the heavyweight boxer cropped up in his mind, and the squealing sirens made him believe he was in heaven. “The Bible says the drunkard shall not enter the kingdom,” Sam quoted his Sunday school’s verse. 

The freaking medical students unplugged the life-support machine. “Is he breathing?” asked his friends, battling to stand on their feet. “You’re not in heaven, this is the ICU,” said the shoulder-badged nurse, nudging him with a needle-sharp syringe. The muscular man from the tow-in services updated Sam’s Facebook status with pics of a beer-tin wreckage of the Golf Six. The tow-in bra charged the alcoholic for resurrecting the car from the graveyard. 

The funeral parlour agent sued the boozy man for crushing the green-and-yellow chrysanthemums. “The flowers were imported from the States,” he warned, wagging a finger at the popped-eyed Sam. The police gave the drunkard a birthday gift in the form of a drink and driving ticket. 

“I quit,” Sam yelled, hurling swearwords at the bottle of tearful Lager on the wall-mounted TV.