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It was a hot day. They cranked the music up and drove with the top down to
Brooklyn. Having cleared danger he was now in the mood to let off some steam. They pulled up, walked along the creaky boardwalk, pass the Wonder Wheel to board The Cyclone, an old fashioned wood rollercoaster.
The seating was a mining cart with worn slated seats and loose fitting lap belts. Unlike a modern day coaster you felt more petrified than exhilarated as there was a very real chance of falling to your death. They could feel every pot and rivet as they squeaked and trundled along. Rawl deliberately rocked the cart at the top, stimulating a terrifying battle of nerves. Three people had died on this ride and Jimmy was going to make it four if he didn’t stop. Rawl laughed, the ride ended and he playfully shoved him around afterwards. He teased Jimmy into another ride straight away provoking him into a duel. He was trying desperately to hold up the British end but as soon as it kicked off felt he’d been shoved out a plane at thirty thousand feet without a parachute. He crawled out; with his head dazed and spinning, struggling to stand up right.
“What do you think?” quizzed Rawl.
“Slightly terrifying…but cool,” he grinned.
“Brit humour, I love it. Come on, one more then, ha ha.” He raced to the next,
the Tilt-A-Whirl desperately trying to break him but they were too late it was closing time. Jimmy faked disappointment but was secretly over the moon as he knew the ride; back in England it was called the Waltzer, a ride so violent it was marginally preferable to decapitation. He was relieved the trial was over and could leave, hopelessly nauseated but with his British pride intact.
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