Shatterfaced's...um...I don't know, like 238743rd author or so, "That Guy".

          Before last Wednesday, Cy Waits, the 34-year-old nightclub mogul, lover of loose women and all-around douchebag, had yet to hit a photographer with his car. A seemingly-commonplace Hollywood rite of passage, everyone from Jonathan Lipnicki to Angela Lansbury had done it. You could even say that Mr. Waits was the odd man out.

          "I was just as shocked as you are," said Cy.  "Shit, I've done some pretty incredible things in my life. I mean, how many people can say they swam with a school of forty dolphins, drank twenty-two Amstel Lights, then made his ex-girlfriend give him a blumpkin in a handicapped bathroom in one day? So, for me to have done all that other awesome noise only to find out I've never hit anyone with my car, yeah, I was pretty upset."

          But Waits didn't let it get the best of him. Determined to succeed, he channeled what was anger and frustration, and turned it into courage and excitement. He was like the Mr. Wizard of Emotionality. Or something.

          Waits phoned his girlfriend, noted socialite Paris Hilton. His excitement was palpable. It was like you could reach out and snort it with a twenty-dollar bill.

         "So, I called up Paris all hyped up and was like, 'Babe, I need your help! We're gonna hit a fucking paparazzi with my car tonight! It's gonna be fucking bad-ass! Vroom-vroom, mother-fucker!'' and she was all like, ' It's Paparazz-o. Paparazz-i is fucking plural. Are you on coke?'"

          And as it turned out, he was on coke.

          "When I got into the Bentley, Cy was even more excited than he was on the phone. Right away, he put on "Everybody Dance Now" by C&C Music Factory and turned it up as loud as it went," Paris said. "If there's one thing I hate, it's sex with a condom. And if there's another, it's that goddamn song. Ugh!"

          Cy and Paris arrived for dinner at Boa Steakhouse in West Hollywood a short while later. There was no sign of paparazzi anywhere, so the two entered the restaurant with no trouble. This was mostly attributed to there being no paparazzi, but also to the fact that Paris had hidden everything that could get them into trouble deep inside her cavernous "vagina."

          Once inside (the restaurant), the two were taken to a private table in the back corner, where they enjoyed a romantic dinner. As usual, Cy ordered the New York strip extra well-done, because it reminded him of eating his dad's boots as a kid. And Paris had a cigarette because it reminded her of a cigarette.

         As Cy paid the tab, he noticed a large swarm of photographers waiting outside the front of the restaurant. His mouth began to foam, realizing he would get exactly what he came for. He and Paris quickly made their way out the back door and into the car, which had been retrieved for them by Josh, a young Mexican valet with a Jewish name.

        Cy immediately put the key in the ignition, but didn't start the engine. He held the key in place.

        Paris looked at him puzzled. "What are you waiting for?"

        No answer.

        Instead, his eyes were fixed on the valet's red lightsaber, motioning for him to exit into the area where the thirty or so paparazzi were. He licked his teeth clean, hoping for any remnants of the before-dinner cocaine. He began to salivate again, focused on his target.

        "That one," he said.

        "Which one?"

        "That one," nodding his head.

        "The woman?"

         He nodded his head again. This time, more intently.

         Paris leaned over and licked his ear. "That's hot."

         Waits finally turned the Bentley on, but the power of the big v-12 engine was barely audible over Tag Team's "Whoomp! There It Is" which was now playing just as loudly as "Everybody Dance Now" had been. Cy was pumped up. There was something about the combination of Jock Jams and cocaine that sent him into overdrive. Paris even admitted to liking it.

        "If there's one thing I love, it's sex without a condom. And if there's another, it's a bag of blow and 'Whoomp! There It Is' by Tag Team.

         His target in sight, Waits quickly accelerated the car towards the large group of photographers. The majority of them dashed out of the way, still managing to snap pictures as they did so. A few, including the lone female photog, however, stayed put.

         All the better for Waits, as he raced towards her with a gleam in his eye.

         The portly woman had nowhere to run. She was trapped indefinitely, and her demise would most likely be caught on film by one of her peers and sold to someone at Faces of Death headquarters.

        "Go easy on her, Cy!" Paris exclaimed.

         As they headed right for her, Cy jerked the wheel at the last second so as to only clip the woman at the knee instead of killing her. She fell to the ground immediately as the Bentley ran over her leg.

         A photographer named Gerrard or something gay then gave them the finger as he took pictures of them fleeing the scene.

        "Whoomp there it is, bitches!" shouted Cy as he and Paris exchanged exploding fist-pounds down Sunset Boulevard.

        "Cross that off the fucking bucket list!"

        "Bucket!" exclaimed Paris.

         And so it was: Cy Waits had finally been inducted into The Hit-and-Run Hall of Fame. His life of total awesomeness had just become that much more awesome. Tonight, he would throw his proverbial hot dog down the proverbial hallway, basking in his victory. Tomorrow, who knows? Jock Jams Volume 2, most likely.

         As for the female photographer, she's expected to make a full recovery after the amputation, though she wasn't thrilled about the whole ordeal.

         "When I said I'd give my left leg to be able to over-zealously follow celebrities and take invasive pictures of them, I never thought I would actually have to give my left leg. I feel really, really dumb. And also like a pirate. But does that mean I won't be at Les Deux this weekend harassing Adrian Grenier for leaving with a tranny? Don't be silly."