High-Speed Chase

There’s always the heart pounding scene of a high-speed chase in action movies, with the police grimacing, seizing the challenge of locking up yet another felon like myself. The camera zooming in, the distance in front of the officers, the suspense. I mean, they’re, I guess, OK to watch every now and then. But my point is what about us? Where’s our blockbuster film or legendary major motion picture? I have yet to see a criminal’s point of view—where’s his cameo? We have feelings, too, and after all, not all of us are bad. Well except for that guy, oh that fella, him, yeah, with the teardrop tat, definitely. Yes, I mustn’t forget, the biggest and baddest of ‘em all—me as well!

So this is how it began:

It was approximately 10 am. The sun was shining, the clouds were fluffy, the birds were chirping, and there was a bank. A financial house, a lender; whatever you call it, I’m there. It was pretty nice inside, I was pleased with the color scheme and the layout, the chandelier overhead was a good touch. But those locking doors—not so much. Do they really think they deter real thieves? Come on. This place had a little table with pastries, I bet they were stale, too, and hot beverages for the clients. Or should I say sugar daddies and sugar mommies? AKA old people giving away their retirement money to “store” until they eventually croak. I guess by handing out free food, it makes the place a little more … palatable to the realization that your bank account will outlive you. I mean, I have nothing against the ancient people in the dead center of the social hierarchy; just know when I take your money from this particular establishment, I don’t mean to take it from you, citizen. I actually thank you for your service of just being average while holding up the rest of society with your checkbook.

Without a plan in mind, as this came a surprise to myself—such a gnawing impulse, really—I simply walked in nonchalant and loudly announced THIS IS A ROBBERY. That’s when the tellers just started practically throwing money at me. What a handful of helpful little women. This is easy—too easy. I ran out. Since I had neither a getaway van nor watch-out, I jogged into a nearby parking lot; it was a dollar store. That’s when I heard sirens. In the spur of the moment, kind of like this whole event thus far, I trotted to an elderly lady getting out of her old hunk of junk probably older than I am. I gently, gently sweet talked her, asking her how she was doing this delightful morning, how nice the weather is, how her grandkids are, etc, etc. As I pretended to listen, she really wasn’t that fascinating, I delicately slid her purse strap from her wrist and dug in for her keys. She punched me. So I punched her back. Then I stole her car.

Here now:

I’m still in the horseless carriage, presently. Law enforcement is on my tail. Those police cars sure are intimidating, revving up and zooming around me, but I’m an expert. I look in the rearview mirror. I got a police officer, about 45 years old, type 2 diabetic, with a greasy ‘stache, morbidly obese, probably patrols Mickey D’s at least three days a week, definitely a smoker. On the other side of me, moving in on me, I got a barely-legal cop who is a damn hipster, likely a vegan, aviator shades, a six-pack, adores puppies, probably a pot smoker. Hypocrite. You’ll never catch me, Man Bun! I’m more experienced. I slam on the gas and reach the highest number this baby will get me before the rusty bolts fly off. 76 MPH. Not ideal but it’ll work. Then I hear a ‘copter; thery’re comin’ to get me. I’m on TV—smile for the camera! Kidding. Side note: that’d be so cool if I ended up on the 4 o clock news just like the stories of grandmas sewing mittens for kittens and some celebrity scandal.

I’m losing momentum. This lemon has been squeezed dry. IIIIIIII’mmm slllooowwwwinng doooowwwwnnnn. I realize the tank is nearing on empty. I’m going to ride this puppy until I can’t no more, right into the figurative sunset. How should I spend my final minutes a free man? What should I do with all this money before I go to the big house? Simple. I got an idea. I throw out the cash like I’m sliding a deck of cards unto a table, stack by stack. The sea of green plasters the windshields of 300 Pound Mustache and Man Bun, a couple others in the back joined, and them too are greeted with a BennyWonderland. They swerve around the road like we’re in a blizzard, ice plowing into the glass, visibility nonexistent. Maybe I’ll loose ‘em because POLICECAR PILE UP on Highway BLEH. I mean, I really wanted to keep the money, but I have bigger fish to fry now. Perhaps a trip to Wally World will calm me down—after all, the doctor told me NO MORE PILLS. This particular corporate location always satisfies the end of a high-speed chase. Maybe crash into the entrance for special effect.

Smack and smash! Boom and bang! I drive through the store, glass shattering, dust exploding outwards, people staring, yelling, both confused and shocked. Debris everywhere—who triggered the fire alarm, or are those sirens?—I think I blacked out for a second. Am I dreaming? I wish. OK, I return to my senses. I have two options: 1) pretend like this was all an accident; or 2) scurry deep into the greeting card aisle hoping my doppelganger just happened to show up on this day, and they arrest him instead of myself. I mean, with his good looks, he’d probably just get off with a warning. Again, am I dreaming?

I’m sure someone’s going to call out, in pain, my leg. But I have no sympathy; I’m too busy botching up my life to notice anyone else’s struggles. They’ll say oh wow I only see this in the news—and maybe on the 9 o clock news.

Tell my mother I love her, it’s final. I’m probably going to jail. They’re going to send me to the slammer, wearing jumpsuits, eating questionable loaves, bunkies—almost sounds like college. Whadya’ in fer? A HIGH-SPEED CHASE, OF COURSE. I DON’T MEAN TO BRAG; I’LL PROBABLY BE ON TV, but if I don’t and to preserve my crisp reputation: This will be my confession. Where's my movie?