It was the perfect annoying Monday morning sound. You could hear the screeching of the fan belt from blocks away.
Rev, screech, brake, throw, Fwap!,
As she got closer, you could hear the Hispanic pop music radio she listened to at ninety Db above the pain level.
Rev, screech, ♪ ♫ ♬ Es que yo sin ti, y tú sin mi ♪ ♫ , brake, throw, Fwap!
I imagined her in the cockpit of the vintage 1982 Vega, with throwing arm with biceps rivaling Popeye the Sailor. She would skillfully launch the papers at doorsteps trying, most of the time, to avoid determined joggers and dogwalkers.
Rev, screech, ♪ ♫ ♬ Esto no me gusta, Esto no me gusta ♪ ♫ , brake, throw, Wham!
She delivered my paper on target and sped off into other neighborhoods.