The dim light of Laszlo's phone screen mounted on the dash illuminated the shitty interior of his '98 civic. The leather upholstery was torn up and stained, the AC was permanently set to blasting hot air, and two out of the four tires were long past due for replacement. It smelled thickly of fried food, male sweat, and weed— an obnoxious combination that seemed to perfectly reflect the man driving it. The speakers thumped obnoxiously as his free leg slammed against the door, a big grin stretched...