Demon Speeding
Sep. 5th, 2013 04:33 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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birthright_rpgThe trunk was full of automatic weapons, which she'd picked up in New Mexico and was supposed to deliver to a guy named Cassavetes in Las Vegas. There must have been a turf war brewing, because this was a good-sized order of ordnance. But the freight was paid and they were offering a bonus if she got there ahead of schedule. She'd stolen the car precisely because it had a large enough trunk.
The highway up to Sin City was a long uninterrupted stretch of asphalt at two in the morning, and the moon was a big silvery light in the sky as the Caddy's headlights splashed on the road. Her foot was heavy on the gas pedal, because she'd been making good time and wanted to spend the day in a real bed. The daylight hours were getting a little shorter now that summer was waning, but the sun was still as deadly as ever.
The State Trooper came out of nowhere, having been situated behind a billboard for Petey's Chicken and Ribs, and the siren wailed as the official vehicle sped up to pace the Cadillac. She looked in the rearview mirror, glanced at the clock on the dashboard. This was not going to screw up her getting to Vegas early.
"Ma'am, do you have any idea of how fast you were going?" The trooper was young, probably fresh out of cop school. She could smell his aftershave, something crisp and clean. "It's two-fifteen, Officer, I figured it wouldn't do any harm to be a little lead-footed. I wouldn't go this fast in traffic."
"I'm going to have to write you a ticket. It might teach you a lesson about road safety, no matter how late it is." "I'm not from Nevada. I wouldn't be able to make the court date." "That's why we have a postal service, Ma'am. You can write a check and mail in your fine."
She moved one hand away from the steering wheel to rub at the back of her neck, and he shone his flashlight on her. She shaded her eyes, because it was really annoying to have someone shine one of those high-powered things right on her, and her voice was a growl when she said, "Get that fucking thing out of my face."
His expression shifted, she could see it even through the glare, and he said, "Ma'am, have you been drinking? Do I need to give you a breathalyzer test?" "No, I don't need a Goddamn breathalyzer test. I wasn't doing anything a million people haven't done before. Now just leave me be."
The cop was silent for a minute, and the Big Bopper came on the radio, which was tuned to the oldies station. Chantilly Lace. "Ma'am, I'm going to have to ask you to exit the vehicle and put your hands on the roof. I'm going to have to call this in, because you're acting as if you're on something."
"You don't want me to do that." "Yes, I do. Now, please, before I have to take you out of the car myself." She just looked at him, and he touched the butt of his shiny new service revolver. "Now."
"It's your funeral."
The car's heavy door opened, and she hit him low before he could step out of range. There was a hollow thud as she body-checked him into the cruiser, and she heard radio static, as if the vehicle were protesting. High overhead, the moon shone down, aloof and uncaring.
What followed was ugly, but it didn't last long. Not after she started to kick him. When his terrified heartbeat slowed down to a sluggish crawl, and then stopped completely, she stepped away from the mess she'd made and wiped her hand across her mouth. The blood smell was making her drool.
The Caddy's door clunked shut. The Big Bopper had been replaced by Conway Twitty's It's Only Make Believe. There was a pack of Marlboros on the passenger seat, and she shook one out and lit up. Blue smoke escaped from her mouth. The clock said it was two-twenty-nine. If she hustled, she could make the city before three. She wanted to draw the curtains against dawn.
It looked like Cassavetes would get his guns early after all.
The highway up to Sin City was a long uninterrupted stretch of asphalt at two in the morning, and the moon was a big silvery light in the sky as the Caddy's headlights splashed on the road. Her foot was heavy on the gas pedal, because she'd been making good time and wanted to spend the day in a real bed. The daylight hours were getting a little shorter now that summer was waning, but the sun was still as deadly as ever.
The State Trooper came out of nowhere, having been situated behind a billboard for Petey's Chicken and Ribs, and the siren wailed as the official vehicle sped up to pace the Cadillac. She looked in the rearview mirror, glanced at the clock on the dashboard. This was not going to screw up her getting to Vegas early.
"Ma'am, do you have any idea of how fast you were going?" The trooper was young, probably fresh out of cop school. She could smell his aftershave, something crisp and clean. "It's two-fifteen, Officer, I figured it wouldn't do any harm to be a little lead-footed. I wouldn't go this fast in traffic."
"I'm going to have to write you a ticket. It might teach you a lesson about road safety, no matter how late it is." "I'm not from Nevada. I wouldn't be able to make the court date." "That's why we have a postal service, Ma'am. You can write a check and mail in your fine."
She moved one hand away from the steering wheel to rub at the back of her neck, and he shone his flashlight on her. She shaded her eyes, because it was really annoying to have someone shine one of those high-powered things right on her, and her voice was a growl when she said, "Get that fucking thing out of my face."
His expression shifted, she could see it even through the glare, and he said, "Ma'am, have you been drinking? Do I need to give you a breathalyzer test?" "No, I don't need a Goddamn breathalyzer test. I wasn't doing anything a million people haven't done before. Now just leave me be."
The cop was silent for a minute, and the Big Bopper came on the radio, which was tuned to the oldies station. Chantilly Lace. "Ma'am, I'm going to have to ask you to exit the vehicle and put your hands on the roof. I'm going to have to call this in, because you're acting as if you're on something."
"You don't want me to do that." "Yes, I do. Now, please, before I have to take you out of the car myself." She just looked at him, and he touched the butt of his shiny new service revolver. "Now."
"It's your funeral."
The car's heavy door opened, and she hit him low before he could step out of range. There was a hollow thud as she body-checked him into the cruiser, and she heard radio static, as if the vehicle were protesting. High overhead, the moon shone down, aloof and uncaring.
What followed was ugly, but it didn't last long. Not after she started to kick him. When his terrified heartbeat slowed down to a sluggish crawl, and then stopped completely, she stepped away from the mess she'd made and wiped her hand across her mouth. The blood smell was making her drool.
The Caddy's door clunked shut. The Big Bopper had been replaced by Conway Twitty's It's Only Make Believe. There was a pack of Marlboros on the passenger seat, and she shook one out and lit up. Blue smoke escaped from her mouth. The clock said it was two-twenty-nine. If she hustled, she could make the city before three. She wanted to draw the curtains against dawn.
It looked like Cassavetes would get his guns early after all.