Outrun Stories #16
The plan is: There is no plan.
“Hit it!” Throttle up, hands gripped, Ray-Bans on, readouts flickering and flashing a million different pieces of data about the road in front and everything that’s chasing us from behind.
“You’re fucking crazy man!” Ivan the Mexican shouts over the red-lining engine as he leans out the window with the rocket launcher hoisted on his shoulder. “I mean, I like you!” I can barely here his voice. “But you’re fucking crazy!” The rocket’s ignition flares and burns a thin layer of soot over the windscreen of the car.
This is fucking ridiculous, for all the technology and war gear we’ve stockpiled in this fucking machine, I have to rely on the screen wash to clear the film of black off so I can just see where I’m going. “You get anything?!” I scream at Ivan the Mexican as he scrambles in the back looking for his next toy.
“Ah man, I’m not sure, I can’t really see much right now, I think that rocket blinded me.”
Fucking great, this asshole, I thought we might get away with this for just a second there. I thought, shit, this guy’s got just enough balls to pull this fucking thing off, just go in blow the shit out of everything, get the fuck out and hammer it. His name’s Ivan the Mexican for fuck’s sake, how the hell was I ever talked into this, how the hell has this fucker survived this long?
“Ahhh, haha!” He starts screaming in the back.
“What the fuck is it, what the fuck is wrong now!?”
“Ah, don’t you worry your little face, my friend, this bad boy will get us out of this!”
I can hear him smashing out the back window as I keep my foot on the floor, the car hammering along through the neon-lit night of the greatest city on earth, Los Angeles. Well, this fucker better be right this time.
Boom, more black fucking soot and smoke and the whole car is full of glass and blood and my ears are screaming and I’m barely able to hold onto the wheel as the insane laughter of Ivan the Mexican starts to filter through.
“Ahaha, that was a big one my friend!”
That’s fucking enough. I grab the Desert Eagle from the passenger seat, turn it over my shoulder and let the whole cartridge rip. Fuck this guy.
“Ah, my friend,” he chokes, “Look what you’ve done to me,” he pushes himself between the two front seats, his bleeding wreck of a body, scorched and cindered, now going limp over the gear stick.
I try and pull him forward out of the way, with one arm struggling to keep the car going, until he slithers through and is somehow in the passenger seat upside down with legs kicking.
Quick. I hammer the breaks and he smashes through the front window legs first as my seatbelt holds tight and I hear the cop cars screaming up behind me. A second for breath, clearing the debris from my face, and shit, there he is, pulling himself up off the road. Fucking Ivan the Mexican.
Well, sorry you hard bastard, but between me, you, those cops and the road in front, it’s going to be me and the road. Adios, amigo.