Shot Dunyun: On Student Driver Nights, the flag is one of those signs that warn: "Caution—Student Driver at the Wheel." You have to make two good-size signs and wire one between your taillights, across the back of your trunk and rear bumper. You wire the second sign across the front of your hood, but so it won't block ram air into your radiator. Beginners, teams that expect too much from their viscous fan clutch and coolant pump, they'll make a sign that blocks the whole grille, and you'll see them overheated at the side of the road.

Echo Lawrence (Party Crasher): Party Crash rules require all the teams use some form of "Ajax Professional Driving School" sign since a few seasons ago a real student driver wandered into the course, during the window. That guy's a legend. The poor student, the story goes, six different teams serial-tagged his car, chased him for blocks, gang-banging his rear bumper until his muffler dropped. People say the student and the instructor just bailed, drove up onto a curb and left the front doors hanging open and the motor running.

From DRVR Radio Graphic Traffic Reports: Here's another update regarding that rollover accident on the 213. Driver extrication continues, but we're already looking at signs of a cerebral subarachnoid hemorrhage and pneumocephalus caused by the driver's forehead contacting the windshield-mounted rearview mirror. That's all there is to see on the westbound side. We'll have another update on the quarter-hour. This is the DRVR Graphic Traffic Report: We Know Why You Rubberneck…

Shot Dunyun: Party Crashing might sound exciting, but most of it consisted of sitting, talking, and driving in circles. Cruising around, watching for another car flying the correct flag for that time window. The flag announced on the phone call or e-mail or instant message that went around. Some windows, you'd see a team without a clue, dressed for a Honeymoon Night with wedding shit on their car. Or you'd see a team wearing the wigs and driving a car painted with "Go Team" shit, perfect for a Soccer Mom Night. If your flag is wrong, you look like assholes. Or worse.

Teams with the wrong flag up, people say they're police trying to break the game. Or they're teams that tagged too hard, rammed other cars in the side or some other verboten spot. You commit enough fouls and people start to call the Party Crash Hotline and report you. Enough fouls go on your tally and you stop getting notices about the next flag and window.

From DRVR Radio Graphic Traffic Reports: Here's a quick look at the rollover on the 213. The meat-wagon boys tell me the driver exhibits bursting lacerations of the pericardium—that tough little bag that holds your heart. Early word is, localized impact appears to have driven the heart against the vertebral column, resulting in a contusion of the posterior wall of the interventricular septum. Dead means dead, and drive time means an update every ten minutes. This is the DRVR Graphic Traffic Report: We Know Why You Rubberneck…

Shot Dunyun: That Student Driver Night, I'm riding shotgun, with Rant covering the backseat. The field looks pretty thin. With my window rolled down, I'm spitting outside, telling Rant, "Even if you give me rabies, I'm not your butt boy." I spit and say, "Especially if you give me rabies."

Normally, Rant smells like a glass of clean water, but not tonight. Every place he touched me, I smell gasoline. "What's that stink?" I ask him.

And Rant goes, "Dimethylcyclopropanecarboxylic acid." He's turned around, watching our five o'clock, out the rear window. Rant says, "Supposed to kill spiders."

From DRVR Radio Graphic Traffic Reports: This just in from the 213: Further treatment of the driver reveals a lateral compression fracture of his right femur, resulting in lateral fractures of the pelvic rami, disruption of the sacroiliac joints with impaction, and fractures of the acetabulum. For those of you on the North Side, the northbound exit from the 614 to the eastbound Helmsberg Freeway is slow, due to a Student Driver stalled on the right shoulder. For Graphic Traffic, this is Tina Something.

Shot Dunyun: Green's lurking us behind a student driver, trailing, weaving through traffic for a better angle, hoping to split the target onto a side street where a solid tag won't soak up too much attention. Maybe police attention. Green's keeping a van, a taxi, a bus—anything big and bright—between us, so the target won't see our flag flying.

Watching for Sharks, I ask Rant if he's looking for a boyfriend.

And Rant goes, "Nah." He'd screw a German shepherd, Rant says, if it would make his folks love him less. Save them from pain.

"Part of my strategying," Rant goes, his head turning to cover two quadrants, our three to nine o'clock. "The worse my folks think of me," he says, "the less they'll hurt about me being gone."

The bus driving next to us, it brakes, drops back for a stop. We're exposed for the time it takes Green to say, "Gentlemen, brace yourselves," and the Left B-Pillar Lookout in our target is staring back, straight at our flag.

The target dives around the next right turn, down a dark lane of parked cars, and Green throws us past the bus in pursuit. Two student drivers, leaving rubber and smoke.

From DRVR Radio Graphic Traffic Reports: This update just in from the meat wagon, en route with our earlier 213 rollover: We won't know for sure until the autopsy, but it looks like another minor laceration of the proximal jejunum with communication with the peritoneal cavity. Inside word is, just two thousand milliliters of purulent material leaks into your peritoneal cavity and the ambulance driver shuts off those sirens and fancy lights. Somethingelse to keep in mind as you hurry through your commute today.

Shot Dunyun: Our target's cruising slow, too close to parked cars for us to make our tag without costly collateral damage. Putting a dent in a game car is fair, but denting an innocent bystander, you have to fess up. Pay for repairs. Our target banks on this fact and tucks close beside parked cars, staying safe until he can lose us around a quick exit. An alley. Ora cop.

Keeping an eye on my game quadrant, I ask Rant if he's queer or not.

That's the night Green Taylor Simms started calling him Huckleberry Fagg.

And Rant goes, "Truth is, I won't never be a doctor. Don't even ask me to do long division." He goes, "I can't do much to make my folks proud…" And he leans forward, reaching into the front seat to turn up the radio. Tina's yakking. Her taking calls from paramedics and traffic cops and pasting together her rubberneck deal.

"But," Rant goes, "if I get my folks' expectations low, and pester them with the worry they messed me up, then just the simple miracle of me getting a girl in trouble—that will bust them open with joy and relief."

From DRVR Radio Graphic Traffic Reports: One last report from the boys in the meat wagon, regarding the fatality rollover on the 213: The song they died hearing was "My Sharona" by The Knack. And that makes Brian Lambson our newest Death Song winner. Brian, if you're listening, call in the next hour to accept your prize. This has been Tina Something for Graphic Traffic: We Know Why You Rubberneck…

Shot Dunyun: As Rant reaches into the front seat, to fiddle with the radio controls, written on the back of his hand in blue ballpoint pen it says: P295/30 R22…P285/30 R22…425/65 R22.5. Obviously tire sizes. Big tires.