Ah, the freedom. Tommy drove down the I-5 at a leisurely 75 miles per hour, past the cattle ranches, and viewed the wide open vistas of the San Joaquin Valley. Was there any feeling like this, knowing he was free now, could do anything he wanted, go any place he cared, screw any babe he put his eyes on? Freedom and money, he’d sought them both for years, and now he had them.
He’d have to get new wheels. The ’93 Deville he’d stolen wouldn’t make it to Mexico like he planned – but it did give him speed. Had to watch it, he found himself going up to 85. Back to 75. No matter – he’d go to a used car lot, pay cash for a 2-year old BMW and be on his way. He’d already gotten the fake license and passport from Ricky in Modesto.
What would he do in Mexico? He’d buy a cantina by the beach – work as a bartender, dole out margaritas to undersexed Missouri housewives on vacation who’d love to have a 9-incher screw them on the beach. The Deville’s speedometer edged to 90 …
The sirens came behind him from nowhere – that patch of grass behind the hill, Tommy supposed. What to do? He stopped and looked about him. The pig got out of his Charger, started toward him with a John Wayne swagger and reflective Ray-Bans like a grunting top from bad ‘70s porn.
Tommy prepared himself. No traffic in either direction.
“License, insurance, registration –“
Tommy lifted his left arm and pointed the revolver straight at the officer’s face. Before the officer could react, Tommy plugged his face. The pig ricocheted backward onto the highway. Tommy threw the gun down on the car’s floor and pulled away.
Ah, the price of freedom. But thank God he was left-handed. Cop would’ve seen the gun in the right hand. Next time – he’d have to watch his speed. One whacked cop was enough.
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